Class Distinctions
by OyHumbug
Summary: Dissatisfied with his lot in life, Ryan Atwood gets an unexpected second chance in a new world thanks to an unlikely source. Flash Fic, one shot
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Once again, this is another one shot that will be up for the vote to see which piece will be continued into a full length flash fic. Thanks and enjoy!_

Charlynn

**Class Distinctions**

**OCFF#19: It was a cold and foggy night…**

Blowing on his frozen digits, the stable hand attempted to revive his immobile fingers, but the warmth and the moister of his own breath did not suffice, and he his hands were left in their numbed state. Winters were always bitter cold in England, but that night was particularly miserable. Perhaps it was his general dissatisfaction with life, or it might have just been the eerie feeling the fog brought him, but, no matter the reason, Ryan couldn't wait to go home in the morning.

Most countryside manors only employed one coachman. He would trudge to work in the first light of dawn and leave with the setting sun unless his master needed his services in the evening, but not the Coopers. No, Lady Julie Cooper insisted that her stables always have a hand available, just in case the sudden whim to go riding in the middle of the night struck her. Even though it was a slightly curious notion, the wealthy wife of Lord James Cooper often did just that.

She was an eccentric woman, but, because of her place in society and her husband's wealth, her uniqueness was tolerated, even doted upon by some. The ladies of the ton claimed she was an original, a fire cracker, and, in an age when women were starting to question their role in society, Lady Cooper was often heralded as a beacon of change. True, the stalwarts, the proper, imperial dowagers of London often frowned upon her activities, but his mistress didn't care what they thought of her. It was just this attitude towards life and propriety that made Ryan uncomfortable around his employer's wife, and, if he could manage it, he attempted to avoid her at all costs.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done, especially since it was common knowledge, even among the working class, that the Coopers' marriage was an unhappy one. Often, even out in the stables as he cared for the horses and carriages, he could hear the Lord and Lady arguing late at night, and, when that happened, it was always inevitable that he would get a visit from someone in the household looking to go for a late night ride.

His master would sometimes approach him tentatively. Always polite, always almost docile, Lord James Cooper would apologize for the inconvenience of asking his stable hand to drive him into town on the evenings when he quarreled with his headstrong wife, despite the fact that it was Ryan's job to do so. When the leader of the household went into town, he often times went to the pub or to his selected gentleman's club to smoke cigars and drink fine brandy, and, while he was otherwise occupied, Ryan was granted the opportunity to socialize with the other coachmen or to merely sit by himself with the carriage. Most of the time, he chose the latter, reading by the light of the moon and the streetlamps.

If it was Lady Cooper who sought his assistance at night, he always went home in the morning with a headache. She was shrill with her haughty arrogance and quite demanding. Nothing he ever did was deemed right by his mistress, and, when he displeased her, she would turn her sometimes seemingly forked tongue in his direction, giving the stable hand a 

verbal lashing. On those nights, he never got a moment to himself, and, by the time the lady of the manor retired for the evening, Ryan always considered asking his employer for a raise… not that he would ever dare be so bold or impertinent.

The rarest late night visitor to the stables was the younger of the two Cooper daughters – Miss Caitlyn. She was a quiet girl, shy and almost timid in nature, perhaps overshadowed by her boisterous mother, and, when she visited him, it was often to simply pet her pony and offer the fine animal whispered secrets, no doubt of her girlhood dreams. Just a year short of entering society formally, the youngest mistress of the Cooper household seemed hesitant to join the whirlwind of the ton and, instead, found her enjoyment in life from the simpler things. Or, on the other hand, she might have been loath to enter society in fear that she would stand overshadowed by her older, much more beautiful sister.

Miss Marissa Cooper was the pride and joy of her parents. Deemed one of the most promising catches in London society, she was courted by dukes and earls, counts and even several princes. She had the pick of any husband she chose, and, perhaps because of her favored reputation, she was, in Ryan's opinion, conceited, vain, and rude. For years, they had hated each other, and, personally, he couldn't wait for his master's oldest daughter to marry and leave the Cooper household. Despite the fact that he sometimes questioned her mother's sanity, he would rather deal with Julie Cooper on any night than even come within spitting distance of her eldest daughter, and, luckily for him, the blonde, blue eyed young woman was far from being partial to going out on late night rides.

The dampness of the dreary land seemed to seep into the coachman, and he shuddered with chill. He knew he would be lucky to survive the frigid evening without coming down with some kind of ailment. Because of his lowly job and the fact that he was an orphan supporting himself in a country rather unfriendly towards those who were poor, his living conditions were one step away from being deplorable, and he often came down with head colds. On the upside, however, he didn't fear a visit from anyone in the Cooper household that evening. The other stable hand had informed him that it had been a quiet day, and, with the miserable weather, Ryan was pretty certain no one, not even Lady Cooper, would risk a ride that night.

With those thoughts in mind, he settled down on a bale of straw. Chaffing his hands together, Ryan tried again in vain to send some warmth to his frozen digits, but, after failing once more to inspire feeling in the bare appendages, he gave up, assuming his efforts to be towards a lost cause. Between the cold, and the boredom, and the late hour, he eventually started to drift off, his head bobbing forward to rest against his chest while his heavy eyes drooped shut. When, all of a sudden a noise, the noise of a trespasser, startled him, he awoke without delay, wondering just how long he had been asleep and praying he would be able to scare off the thief. If he failed, no doubt, his employer would question his ability to perform his duties, and, without his job for the sometimes strange and oftentimes temperamental Coopers, he wouldn't survive.

Blindly, he reached for a pitchfork, the only weapon within grasp. Wrapping both of his hands around the wooden handle, he advanced on the intruder, the sharp tines of the 

farming tool aimed directly into their back. The shadows of the night prevented him from seeing the person's face, and the fog which had seeped in through the open door, made the prowler's form almost shapeless. However, as he got closer to the interloper, he could see that they were slight of build but relatively his same height as he was, but it wasn't until he jabbed the fork into their back that he realized the trespasser was not a thief but a woman. The revelation only confused him more.

"What the bloody hell do ya think you're doin in 'ere?"

"Mr. Atwood," a self-important, superior voice commanded icily, "if you want to retain your position here at Cooper manor, I suggest you remove that sharp, dirty object from my back at very this moment."

Each word she uttered was perfectly succinct, and it made Ryan frown momentarily. That was another reason he detested the eldest of his master's daughters. Every word that dripped from her mouth was uttered in disdain; each syllable properly pronounced compared to his providential accent. Unlike him, though, Miss Marissa had been educated in the finest schools in France, given every opportunity to succeed despite the fact that her education, her training, her knowledge would be of no further use to her than a mere amusement. While in her presence, he never failed to feel inferior, even unintelligent, and he hated her for the sheer fact that she had everything in life handed to her on a silver platter while he scrimped and struggled for practically nothing.

Eventually, though, he recovered from his surprise and obeyed her charge. Lowering the pitchfork to the ground, he dropped it loudly, its metal tines bouncing off the floor, the sound of it landing echoing throughout the wooden stable. When she was out of harm's way, the belle of society whirled around to face him, her sharp, unforgiving eyes piercing him with contempt.

"My 'pologies, Mistress," Ryan mumbled, averting his gaze from the young lady's.

Instead of accepting his request for forgiveness, though, she simply changed the subject. Tilting her chin even higher into the air, she ordered him, "fetch me the carriage, Mr. Atwood. I wish to go to town."

"Now, Miss? But it's the middle of the night. What business do you 'ave in town at this time? And," he pressed her, suddenly becoming aware of her rather common appearance, "why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what exactly," Miss Marissa inquired haughtily.

Despite his curiosity, he recognized her tone, and he realized she was anything but welcome to the idea of being questioned by her coachman. So, submitting to her mood, he remarked in a mumble, "nothing, Miss."

As was his job, he prepared the coach for travel, hitching the horses before helping the 

young woman he loathed so much into the carriage. He wondered where she was headed, and if her parents knew of her impending trip, but it wasn't his place to question those of his superiors, so he remained quiet and simply drove the blonde to the destination she requested. Fifteen minutes later, after obeying her directions from inside of the moving vehicle, they arrived at the waterfront, and, immediately, Ryan's curiosity turned to dread.

He knew that his mistress was up to something, and, if he wasn't careful, she would drag him into her mess. But he was between a rock and a hard place. He could obey her every command, or he could rebel, refuse to let her out of the carriage, and quickly drive it back to Cooper manor, waking her father and informing him just what his eldest daughter had attempted to do that evening. And he wasn't sure whose wrath he feared more – Lord James' or the woman sitting ramrod straight, a simple valise waiting patiently at her feet, in the back of the coach.

Second guessing himself the entire time, the stable hand decided to do what he was told. After all, according to society and his employers, he was nothing but a brainless waste of space. If he claimed he had no idea what Miss Marissa had been up to that evening, they would probably believe him, simply ridiculing his obtuseness behind his back, but, if he disobeyed her orders, he would have to suffer the wrath of his mistress, and that was something he always strived to avoid.

As they made their way towards the ship that was preparing to depart, neither of them said a word. He carried her tote for her, as was expected of him, and she walked by his side, for the first time in her life not demanding he follow at her footsteps. And, suddenly, just like that, because of her less than proud attitude on the wharf, he realized what Miss Marissa Cooper was up to.

She was running away, purchasing a chance to flee her home, her country, and the expectations of everyone around her and striking out on her own. She was going to America, a place Ryan only dreamed of seeing one day, of escaping to, and it made him take notice of the young woman in a different light. He started questioning what exactly had made her so miserable in England that she had been forced to take such drastic measures, and, for the first time since he had met her, he wondered if they perhaps did actually have something in common.

The man at the plank stopped their progress, holding up a hand to signal that they must stop. Without words being exchanged, Ryan watched as Marissa purchased her way onto the ship, and, just as he was prepared to walk away, just as he was about to turn around and go back to the empty carriage parked discreetly out of view, the sailor smiled warmly at the both of them and ushered them onto the boat.

"Welcome to _The Newport_," he stated grandly. "You and your wife can wait on deck to watch us leave port if you'd like," he offered kindly. "She'll be pulling up anchor in just a few minutes."

And, just like that, Ryan Atwood was going to America… with Marissa Cooper, once future 

duchess, countess, or princess and now just as poor, just as common, just as unimportant as he was.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: For all of you who voted, I just wanted to say thank you. It was close and came down to three one shots: Gone, Killing Him Softly, and Class Distinctions. You can see for yourselves which piece won. I must admit that I'm quite happy with the outcome. Even if your particular choice didn't win, I hope you all still read and enjoy this new flash fic. :)_

Charlynn

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Two  
OCFF#20: I'm obsessed with you.**

She felt as if she was going out of her mind.

After years of avoiding Ryan Atwood and having him avoid her, Marissa couldn't turn around without him being in her face. And, sure, yes, it was partly her fault. After all, it was her decision to run away from home. It was her decision to sail to the colonies. And, it was also her decision to drag the stable hand into her plot as an accessory, but that did not mean that they were friends now and certainly not anything more. In her mind, their association, at that point, was one of survival, of convenience, a mere business relationship. In it, she paid for his passage in exchange for his acceptance of her plan. Unfortunately, Mr. Atwood wasn't quite grasping the conditions, unspoken or otherwise. But that was her fault in a way, too, because why should she expect a servant to be able to understand the fine nuances of her own mind, especially when said servant was poor and uneducated.

All she wanted was a few moments of peace alone a day, where she could be by herself in silence to think. On the surface, it sounded like a plausible wish, but, in retrospect, life on a ship was far different than life on dry land. One did not have their own private room to escape to. There weren't acres upon acres of land outside the back door for one to run out and hide upon. And there certainly weren't locks to be turned on the doors to grant one some privacy… at least not on any of the doors she was given access to as a passenger.

When she was in their cabin, it was expected that Ryan be with her. Because they were posing as a young married couple traveling to the New World for a second chance at a better life, the sailors and crew and the other travelers thought nothing of them being in private together. Never mind the fact that they weren't married, Marissa was uncomfortable in such closer quarters with her former stable boy simply because she didn't like him.

She wasn't naïve enough to not understand the personal relations a man and woman shared after they were joined together as man and wife. After all, she had entered the ton in the hopes of finding a suitable husband. Her mother had prepared her years ago for what she was to do once she married, but knowing those things in her mind did not make living with a male any easier for her. She constantly felt watched, felt scrutinized, and was on edge. So far, Mr. Atwood had been respectful towards her, turning his back when she dressed for the day or undressed at night, but, nevertheless, she was constantly aware of his presence and the discomfort it brought her.

Then there was their interaction outside of their personal quarters. When dining, he was always by her side, sitting beside her, talking to her, holding her arm as they made their way about the ship to and from the large dining room. Those surrounding them assumed that a married couple would act in such a manner, and, if they didn't live up to expectations, they would run the risk of being caught.

Any free time she had also seemed to be spent with her parents' former employee, and, since they were on a ship that was crossing the Atlantic Ocean, there was really nothing but free time, time to spend idly as the minutes slowly passed. While sailing, time seemed to stop. There were no landmarks to judge their position or to anticipate seeing. Instead, one simply had the seemingly endless horizon of water to look at, the waves blurring together until it felt as if you were drowning in a sea of nothing. It was disheartening, and, personally, for Marissa, it made her feel both lonely and depressed. If she were honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she was homesick, too.

Not that she missed her family or even her friends, she just missed the security of Cooper Manor. She missed her large, comfortable bed with its down mattress and pillow, its layers upon layers of luxurious quilts and duvets. She missed the variety and quality of food she had been served day after day as the daughter of a Lord. She missed her former cleanliness, her wide variety of beautiful dresses, her private maid. And she missed her father's impressive library as well. It had been impractical to pack books when she prepared her tote for travel the night their ship had departed from England, but, at that point, a week into their journey to America, she would have given just about anything for a single novel, something she could immerse herself in and escape the less than favorable conditions the ship had to offer and Ryan Atwood's continuous presence in her life.

However, if it was the last thing she did, she was determined to get a few moments of privacy away from the former coachman. While Ryan had been watching out for her, she had been observing his habits. His daily routine was so predictable, one could start the sunrise on it every morning. Under the guise of taking an afternoon nap, she had retired the day before to their quarters. He had escorted her, as he did when she went anywhere on the boat, but, after making sure she was safely enclosed in their cabin, he had left her alone. Cautiously, deceitfully, she had followed him.

She had already known that he didn't like to be up on deck of the ship, a fact she had often used to her advantage just to torture her traveling companion for apparently deeming her incompetent enough to take care of herself, so she hadn't been surprised when he remained below deck when he had a moment to himself. However, what had surprised her was the fact that he disappeared down into the crew quarters where he would talk to and discuss political matters with the various men while they worked. What they conversed about mattered very little to the former society darling. Things such as the tyranny of the crown and the issue of taxation without representation meant absolutely nothing to her, but she was astonished that Ryan cared about such things. After all, he was just an orphaned servant with utterly no hope of ever becoming something more. He'd never be a man of respect or a member of parliament, so what did politics have to do with him?

Her confusion didn't last for long, though, because she simply dismissed it. What did she care if some overly self-important stable boy had dreams of making something of himself someday? For Marissa, he was just the means to an end, and that was all he would ever be to her. Once they were safely in America, they would part ways. He could stay in the New World, far, far away from her, of course, go back to England, or become a pirate for all she cared. The important thing was that he was distracted in the afternoons by his equally as 

unimpressive friends, and she would be able to go up on deck without censure or a keeper.

After having claimed to be tired once again, she had slipped up into the fresh air and the hustle and bustle of activity the deckhands scurrying around her caused. It was the only part of the ship she found somewhat exciting. While one could lean back against the side of the boat, they could watch the men working. She felt illicit listening to their foul talk, she felt alive amidst all their movement, and, because she was finally free of Ryan, she felt independent for the first time since she had escaped from her parents' control. And that was the very reason why she had left home in the first place – for the freedom and independence living on one's own could bring her, for the right to choose her own destiny, her own husband, and for the sense of fulfillment that came with such liberty.

"Mrs. Atwood," a voice beside caused her to jump. Turning to face the man beside her, she had to school her features not to react to the married name she was disguised as while still on board the ship. It disgusted her to think that those around her believed her to be married to the waste of a coachman she had used to run away, but she was willing to make the sacrifice to her pride if it meant leaving Cooper Manor and the binds it placed upon her forever.

"Good Afternoon, Sir," she greeted the first mate with a slight curtsy and a fake smile. As the second in charge on _The Newport_, the man beside her had temporary power over her, and she would treat him with respect and deference while still on board even if she did believe him to be an uncivilized oaf of a man.

He sidled closer to her, the dirty sleeve of his shirt brushing up against the clean one of her dress. "And where is Mr. Atwood this afternoon?"

"I believe he's speaking to some of your crew below deck."

"Aw, I see," the sailor inanely commented when all she wanted to do was escape his presence. "It's not often that we see you alone, wanderin' about these parts of the ship, Ma'am."

Marissa took a step back, but he seemed to follow her, their positions even closer than before when they both stopped moving. Finally, she responded rather breathlessly, her nerves apparent. "I just… I just wanted some fresh air. We've been traveling now for more than a week, and this is my first time crossing the ocean, and it's not an all together pleasant experience, no offense, Sir."

"None taken, of course," he smoothly replied, grinning lecherously towards her. When he bared his teeth, she could see how stained and crooked they were, the tiny specks of tobacco lining the slight gaps between them. Between the natural roll of the boat, his unwanted attentions, and the disgusting sight of his presence before her, she felt her stomach turn over rather dangerously. "However," he continued, reaching out for and touching her hand with his own. She would have pulled away, but, suddenly, she realized just how dire of a mistake she had made coming out above deck on her own. "You should 

have come to me sooner with your complaints. As the second in command of this vessel, I feel as if it is partially my responsibility to make sure that all our passengers _enjoy _their voyage aboard _The Newport _as much as possible. I'm sure we could come to some sort of arrangement, Mrs. Atwood. Why don't you come with me down to my private quarters, and we'll have ourselves a nice little chat."

"I'm afraid I can't," she begged off quickly, attempting to and failing to loosen her fingers from his embrace. Instead, the sailor only seemed to take her refusal as a challenge, and he moved closer to her, his hand sliding up her arm until he grasped her tightly, his knuckled brushing against her breast with every powerful squeeze of his grip around her rapidly bruising appendage.

"That wasn't necessarily an offer, Ma'am."

Deciding that her best option was to play dumb, the runaway daughter of a Lord, though the first mate had no clue as to her true identity, explained, "I promised my husband that I would only stay up here for a few minutes. I tire easily, you see, and I'm supposed to be taking a nap. If I'm not back to our cabin in a few minutes, he'll come looking for me. So…"

"But he'd never think to look for you with me," her captor continued to argue, pulling her with him as he moved towards the entrance that led below deck.

All the men around them, men who took their orders from the man taking her against her will, turned their heads away, ignoring or perhaps it was pretending to not notice what their first mate was doing to one of the passengers. In that moment, Marissa realized that no one was going to save her. All of a sudden, she regretted her animosity towards Ryan, she regretted her decision to sneak away from him, to lie to him about taking a nap, and all she wanted in that moment was to see his calm and reassuring, his trustworthy and dependable face, because she realized that, despite their history of animosity towards each other, and despite the fact that Ryan had been raised in poverty, underneath his lack of social grace and wealth, he was a gentleman, and he would never hurt her or willingly allow anyone else to do so either.

She had been wrong about everything, and, now, she was going to pay the price for her mistakes.

"There you are," a voice sounded from behind both her and the ship's second in command. Immediately, she sighed with relief, turning her head around to stare gratefully into the former stable boy's anxious yet commanding gaze. "I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, reaching out and taking her from the crude sailor. "Thank you for keeping an eye out for my wife," he offered the first mate. Although no one could argue with what he said, Marissa could read the underlying anger and threat that tinged his tone as he addressed the other man. "But it won't happen again. Mrs. Atwood and I, we really don't like to be separated from each other."

As he took her into his arms, holding her tightly against him in an effort to still and reassure 

her, she finally felt as if she could breathe easily again. There were no words of recrimination, no lecture, and she was grateful that Ryan wasn't going to yell at her, be mad, or hold the incident over her head. He realized with just one look at her face how sorry she was for her actions, and, for him, that silent apology had been enough. From that point on, she promised herself that she would allow him to take care of her… that was, until they docked in Boston.


	3. Chapter 3

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Three  
OCFF#21: Heroin(e) Eyes**

Ryan couldn't sleep.

With his mind too busy thinking and his body too rigid, unable to relax, he simply laid there, eyes fixated on the ceiling above, his breathing unconsciously regulated to match the woman's beside him. He wasn't a stranger to a woman's company at night, but his interactions in the past had certainly been different than what he was experiencing in the present. Curious, intrigued, and needful, he had visited several prostitutes over the years, but his interaction with them had been professional, paid for, and quickly forgotten. He didn't linger afterwards, and he certainly didn't _sleep _beside them, and the fact that he was now doing so, or, at least, was supposed to be doing so with Marissa Cooper, of all women, had him spooked.

She was someone to be respected, socially leagues above him. In essence, she was untouchable, and, even though they were fronting as a married couple moving to America, she still felt like his better, both financially and intellectually, and there was even a part of him that felt as if he still worked for her. But that wasn't why he stayed with her, and, unlike what Marissa thought, it wasn't because he felt pity for her either or wanted to use her for the money she had brought along with her. No, what kept him at her side, what made him nurse her day in and day out as she slowly recovered from an illness which had taken hold of her mid-crossing, was the look on her face when he had found her being mauled by the first mate on _The Newport_. No, what kept him with her was the fact that she was an innocent - a beautiful, insufferable, charming, thorn in his side innocent, and he couldn't let anything happen to her.

"Are you awake?"

Her raspy voice caught him off guard. Although he hadn't been asleep, he had believed her to be, and the fact that she had obviously not been made him nervous for some unknown reason. "Can't sleep."

"I see," she breathed out, falling silent once again.

The double bed they were both resting on squeaked as she moved slightly, but, soon, both it and her fell silent once again, and Ryan returned to his contemplative thoughts. He was in Boston, Massachusetts, renting a room above a respectable yet not opulent inn and sharing said room with a woman who was just, a month before, destined to perhaps even live in a palace. It was a humbling thought. And, at the same time, it was also a beguiling one, too. Even with their rolled up extra clothes separating them, he could still sense every nuance of Marissa's form beside him, felt her heat radiating off her nightgown covered body, the blankets hiding them from each other's sight doing little to curb his imagination. After all, he was a man, a man who had not been with a woman in quite a long time, and he couldn't 

deny the fact that the woman next to him was tremendously attractive… as long kept her mouth shut.

"You," he finally returned the inquiry, wondering why she was still awake, too.

"I'm not tired," Marissa shared softly, her words lacking their usual hostility, but he blamed her temporary pleasant attitude on her illness. "I slept most of the day while you were out looking for a job. Did you find anything?"

"Not yet."

She sighed, the sound melancholy to his ears. "May I ask what kind of positions you are looking for?"

"Well, anything, really, but I'll probably end up doing what I know best, being a stable hand for some wealthy gentleman."

It's not what he wanted to do. Ideally, he wanted to find a position somewhere that would require him to use his mind – in a law office as a clerk or as a powerful , influential businessman's aide, but it was a rather pointless aspiration seeing as how he no references and was self-educated. Despite common sense, though, he had hope. After all, America was supposed to be a new land, a place of opportunities for all. He just needed time and patience, two things he was quickly run out of. With two of them living off of the money Marissa had brought with her, it was rapidly becoming depleted, and, with her own health uncertain, she could do nothing but recuperate.

However, even once she was better and despite her protests to the contrary, the former and probably soon-to-be again coachman had a feeling they would remain with each other, posing as a married couple, for a long time to come. She needed him for safety, for protection, and he needed her simply for her past experience in society. She knew where a wealthy gentleman would go to find himself a new servant, she knew what would be expected of one in various aspects of life simply because she had been trained to not only take care of herself when she became a wife and a mother but also how to manage an entire household, and, for the moment, she was the only one of them who had a means of supporting them. At that point, he was just grateful that she was ill, no matter how discourteous that sounded, for, if she wasn't, Ryan had a suspicion she would have left him to his own devices the very day their ship had docked in the harbor.

Shocking him, she softly confessed, "maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Mr. Atwood. Maybe I should just go back home, allow my parents to dictate my life as how they see fit, never once asking me what I want or need, allow them to use me to cement their standing in London."

Compelled to reassure her, why he didn't know, he rolled over onto his side, propping his head up on his hand as he looked down upon her tear streaked face. It was obvious that she had been silently crying for a while, and he felt bad that he had not noticed before, that 

he had been too wrapped up in his own concerns to realize there was something seriously bothering Marissa.

"Why would you do that?"

"Look at me," she protested harshly, closing her swollen, haggard eyes in frustration. Even after nearly a week of rest, she still looked exhausted, her eyes surrounded by shadows, her face hollowed out from the weight she had lost, weight she could barely afford to lose. "It's obvious that I can't take care of myself, that I'm not nearly as independent as I had originally thought or even hoped. We've been in the colonies for five days now, and I haven't once been able to leave this room. I haven't seen the sun set over American soil, I haven't really heard an American accent, and I've yet to even start looking for a position with a respectable household, and, when I do, who is going to hire me? I look like I can't take care of myself. How will I be able to convince someone that I can take care of their family?"

"Marissa, it's not uncommon for someone to become seasick." Despite the fact that she still refused to call him by his given name, he had long since forgotten the formalities of their former social standings and insisted upon calling her Marissa. She didn't seem to mind. "And as for doubting yourself, don't you think that I'm unsure of myself, too? I mean, I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you tricking me into boarding that ship. I would still be back at Cooper Manor, taking orders from your father, listening to your sister lament about her life, and having to hide from your crazy mother."

She laughed then, and it surprised him how good he felt at being able to give her such a little moment of joy, of happiness. "You know, I think my mother secretly liked you."

"You're out of your mind. She never spoke to me unless she was screaming or demanding I do something for her."

"But that's just Julie Cooper's way. In fact," the beauty beside him blushed, turning away from his piercing stare. "I think she quite fancied you, in fact. She and my father, well, they were…"

"Unhappy in their marriage," Ryan supplied helpfully. They both knew it was more than that, that Lord and Lady Cooper had fought terribly, had slept in separate bedrooms since the very start of their marriage, and that the only time they ever had a civil word for each other was when they were in public, performing for the ton and pretending to be the perfect couple, the perfect family.

"That's the main reason I ran away, you know." Her whispered confession had the onetime stable boy leaning in closer to hear her gently spoken words. "I refuse to marry anyone if I'm not in love with them." Before Ryan could reply, she rushed on. "And I know it's an avant-garde ideal, that a marriage is supposed to be a transaction, often business in nature, between one family and another, securing both wealth and social standing, but I don't understand how women can subject themselves to such a lifestyle. I'd rather be a disgrace, 

an embarrassment who never marries and becomes an old maid than enter into matrimony with a man who doesn't love me for me and not my father's money, let alone likes and respects me."

"I just never wanted to marry at all," he commented, making the blonde beside him roll her bright, blue eyes. "Women they're…"

"We're what?"

As honestly as he could reply and with a completely straight face, Ryan answered, "you're more trouble than you're worth, the whole lot of you."

His response made her giggle, something that surprised him. He thought Marissa would take offense to his statement, that she would sulk and claim he was a boorish ape of a man, but her reaction was to the contrary. Calming down, she revealed, "I feel the same way about men, too… well, at least, most of them."

"So why don't we do this," he suggested, suddenly sitting up in bed. He grinned as he watched the onetime society darling turn beet red at seeing him in nothing but his underclothes, going so far as to chuckle when she turned her head to the side in an attempt to hide her obvious embarrassment. "Why don't we just keep on pretending that we're married? You'll be safer, if one of us finds a job, then we can help the other one out until they find one, too, and, to keep things equal between us, we can help each other out. You can, if you're willing, help me continue to educate myself, and, in exchange, I'll teach you basic, survival skills – how to defend yourself, how to cook, how to cut firewood, grow vegetables, and ride a horse and not with one of those ridiculous sidesaddles."

"You mean with my legs across the animal… like a man?"

"There should be no other way. Sidesaddles are dangerous, and they don't afford you proper control of your horse. If you ever need to get somewhere in a hurry, you're going to have to learn how to get the horse ready yourself and how to correctly ride."

"Well, I guess," Marissa paused long enough to clear her throat, excitement tinting her otherwise pale cheeks a light shade of pink. "I guess it's a deal."

Duplicating his actions, she sat up in bed, the blankets she had clutched to her chest falling down to reveal her nightgown, but Ryan attempted to pay it no attention. He nearly succeeded. Sticking her hand out in front of her, the beauty demanded, "let's shake on it."

He returned the gesture, clasping her hand firmly. When she squeezed his as hard as she could, either in an attempt to hurt him, which wouldn't surprise Ryan, or in an attempt to show him her strength which was minimal, he had to smile. If nothing else, Marissa Cooper had fire, and she was going to need it now that she was controlling the fate of her own life instead of allowing others to do so for her.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Atwood."

"And you as well, _Mrs. Atwood_," he taunted.

"Why can't we use my last name? Why can't you start calling yourself Ryan Cooper? Is this how it's always going to be," she questioned, going off on a tangent, appearing as if she could complain for the rest of the night if he granted her the opportunity. "Just because we're helping each other out and pretending to be married, that does not give you the right to tell me what to do."

"Go to sleep, Marissa," he ordered her, already laying back down himself. "You need your rest so you can start to feel better."

"You are not the boss of me!"

"No," he agreed with her, sighing heavily as he rolled her, presenting the woman beside him with his back. "I have a feeling you're going to be the boss of both of us in this marriage."

And he'd be lucky if he survived it… or her… unscathed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Four  
OCFF#22: Even when she's breaking his heart, she still -- like a tease.**

Despite her fleeting moment of doubt, of insecurity, Marissa truly was happy with her decision to run away from home. The trip had been far from idyllic, but, for the first time in her, she was excited for the unknown. She couldn't predict her future, and that was invigorating. Her life was spread out before, and, instead of holding back and allowing someone else to make all the decisions, she could mold her own destiny. It was a heady realization, especially considering the fact that women were not supposed to have their own thoughts let alone ones so revolutionary, but, as she stood amongst the crowds in the Boston marketplace, as she soaked up their energy and vitality, she realized that she wasn't the only one on the verge of change. It was happening all around her.

However, some old habits died hard. While she was learning to adjust to her new, meager lifestyle, she missed the opulence, the beauty of her old existence. Instead of her lavish dresses from only the best dress makers in Paris, she was now stuck wearing plain, homely, ill fitting clothes that she had purloined from her own former lady's maid. They were scratchy against her delicate skin and far from the trendy realms of fashion. And, while she knew that they – herself and Ryan – couldn't afford unnecessary spending to comfort her vanity, she found that she simply could not stay away from the various ladies shops that peppered the marketplace.

There were dress makers, milliners, and cobblers, shops to buy ribbons and fans, and, even though the wares offered in the colonies could not compare to those she was used to in London, they were still much prettier than what she was currently wearing. So, she wandered, and she pretended that she could afford to buy new things, and she dreamed a little of what it would be like to have the best of both worlds – the freedom of living in Boston and the wealth of her former life. Even though the dreams were just that, fantasies, they made her feel better, and, after a week of searching for a position of employ with a respectable family and failing and being forced to move from their once comfortable quarters above a clean and decent inn and into a rather meager establishment, Marissa needed the moment of fancy… even if Ryan would be upset with her for dallying.

"I'd go with the soft, pastel blue," a voice behind her recommended. So far, as if sensing that she was just looking and not intending to buy, the shopkeepers had all kept their fair distance from her, but, apparently, the other customers did not share their presence of mind or their intuition. "I apologize if you find my behavior rude, but I couldn't help but notice how long you've been looking at the ribbons, Miss, and I must say that the light blue would look beautiful against your complexion."

When she turned around to face the interfering customer, she had been expecting a busybody – a wrinkled, bored, and always inappropriate gossip, but, instead, there was a young girl standing before her, no doubt shy of her sixteenth birthday, smiling widely with what could only be described as hope and blind sweetness shining in her doe-like brown 

eyes. Just a few years younger than herself, the stranger, despite her obvious wealth and social status as could be ascertained from her very appearance, didn't seem to see the differences between her own person and that of Marissa's. She treated her like an equal, and that perhaps undeserved attitude made the blonde respond in kind.

"I'm afraid I'm just browsing today."

"Oh," the young girl remarked, sounding almost disappointed. "Well, then, I insist that you help me pick out some ribbons instead. Papa is having this terribly formal dinner party at the end of the month with all these equally important men, and, since my mother passed away when I was born and my father never remarried, I must serve as the hostess whenever he holds such functions, and I'm always a nervous mess beforehand. So much time and effort goes into planning such an event. One must figure out the place settings, what to serve, if it would be proper for there to be entertainment afterwards in the drawing room, and, if any of the guests are staying the night, one must prepare the spare rooms as well. It's very taxing, not that I would tell Papa that, but the thing I find most perplexing is my own appearance."

Not giving Marissa a chance to speak, the curly haired brunette kept rambling. "I know that may seem selfish, but my appearance reflects upon my father's reputation and standing amongst his friends and colleagues. While I want to appear responsible and competent, despite what I'm actually feeling on the inside, I'm also just a young girl, so it's inappropriate for me to wear my hair up or to choose something too ornate and extravagant for my dress."

"Well, what about a lady's maid," the older of the two girls suggested both helpfully and selfishly. "Surely your lady's maid could help you."

"Alas, I don't have one. Papa has hired me two thus far, but they have both quit, and I can't just have anyone as my lady's maid. She needs to be knowledgeable, educated, capable of instructing me in the various areas of society that my mother, god rest of her soul, would have if she were still alive herself."

Before she knew what she was doing, Marissa, after having taken pity upon the adolescent, was sharing with her her thoughts on the matter. "Red was all the rage back in London when I left," she confessed. "It was going to be the color of summer despite its darker hues. The designers in Paris were going more for raspberry, though, pinker tones, but, obviously, because of your age, you can't wear such a bright hue. However, what if you went with a variation of it? Not rose, though," she argued with herself, "or mauve. Neither color would work with your skin tone, and, plus, they're both too uninspired. I think you should go with peach. It's fresh, it would be a lovely shade against your skin, and, although it's not as boring as white, it's still appropriate for a girl of your age and social standing."

The stranger stood slack jawed before her. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"  


"That," the teen gestured vaguely, obviously impressed. "I have been debating this very issue for more than a month now, and, just like that," she snapped her fingers, a very unladylike gesture, to display the quickness in which Marissa had assessed her situation and recommended a color, "you come up with the perfect solution. If we weren't in public, I'd hug you and squeal."

Laughing and getting lost in her new acquaintance's glee, the blonde stated, "if we weren't in public, I'd join you."

"So you're really from London? How are you familiar with the latest Parisian styles?"

She didn't know why she was confessing her story to the petite girl before her, but, nevertheless, Marissa replied honestly. "Up until recently, I've always worn only the best dresses, for my mother insisted upon it, but then I ran away from home, came to America, and no longer were my fancy ball gowns appropriate. You can't very well walk let alone work in dresses like the ones I was raised to wear."

The brunette sighed. "That's terribly romantic, running away from home. Did you do it for love?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your parents forbid you to marry the man you were in love with, right, and, so, you decided to run away instead of being forced into a marriage with someone you cared nothing for?"

All of a sudden, a picture of Ryan's face flashed in front of Marissa's mind, and she remembered their cover story. She wasn't just a runaway girl who had left her parents' home in order to find freedom, she was posing as a married woman, and, not only was her own life precariously balanced upon that ruse, but Ryan's was as well. Despite her yearning to be honest with just one person, she knew that she couldn't. She would have to lie to the idealistic young woman standing before her, but the thought of doing so made her feel slightly queasy.

"Well, in a way," she finally responded softly. Whispering, she pretended to confess, "I married a man my parents didn't approve of, so, without even telling them of our union, we fled to America for a fresh chance together, one not hampered by our different social classes and pasts."

"But you're not wearing a wedding ring," the teen noticed, but, before Marissa could think of a lie in response, she pressed on. "Oh, but you probably had to sell your ring in order to pay for the passage." Clasping her gloved hands together, the brunette declared, "wouldn't it be terribly romantic if, someday, perhaps for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, your husband tracked down your old ring and represented it to you."

Laughing at her acquaintance's dramatics, Marissa denied her kindly. "I highly doubt that will ever happen, especially seeing as how neither of us are even employed at the moment, and the little money we came to the colonies with is quickly disappearing. I'm afraid frivolities like that are not in our future."

There was a light that seemed to go off in the petite girl's gaze. "Did you say that you were looking for a position… perhaps as a lady's maid?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't…"

"Nonsense," the stranger argued, apparently forgetting about the ribbons she had been after before. Dragging Marissa by the arm, she pulled her from the shop and out onto the bustling sidewalks. "You're obviously educated. One can tell simply by having a conversation with you. You're clean and respectful, from your own admission, I've gathered that you probably have more experience with society than I could ever wish to accumulate, you're quick on your feet, brave, and I can already tell that we'll get along splendidly. You're perfect; you're just the very person Papa and I have been looking for."

"But what about Ryan?"

The brunette stopped in her tracks, turning around to face the older woman. "Who's Ryan?"

"He's my… my husband." She literally had to clench her teeth as she said the final word.

"Oh, don't worry," the adolescent reassured her. "Papa's always looking for dependable employees. I'm sure he could find a position for him, too, perhaps in the stables or as a valet. Is he educated as well?"

"Self-educated," Marissa answered, making the younger woman smile.

"So is Papa. As long as your husband can read, write, and perform small arithmetic equations, he'd probably be a perfect secretary for my father. I've been trying to convince him to hire someone for the past few months. With all his war efforts, he's been so very busy. In fact, I've been worried about his health, afraid that he'll overtax himself and come down with something. If I lost Papa, I don't know what I'd do."

Apparently, her new acquaintance's mood could vary rather quickly. Wanting to reassure her, the blonde remarked, "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Well, if nothing else, he will be now, now that I've found you and your husband." The brown eyed girl smiled widely. "I must say, meeting you has been a sheer stroke of providence. Now, come along," she insisted, reaching, once again, for Marissa's hand. "We must find this husband of yours, but wait," she exclaimed stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk once again, oblivious to the people being forced to mill around them. "I don't even know your name yet."

"Marissa, Marissa Atwood."

"And I'm Dolley Johnson," the young girl informed her, shocking Marissa when she shook her hand in greeting just like a man. "But before we go, I must ask you one more thing, and I'm afraid everything we've discussed depends upon your answer." Without responding verbally, the blonde nodded her head for her new friend to press on. "Are you a Patriot or a Tory?"

Quickly, her mind raced over the various things she had heard circling about her. From Ryan's talks with the crew under deck on _The Newport _to just the simple rumblings of those passing by, she luckily knew what those two words meant. And, without delay, without doubt, she replied, "my husband and I, we're both Patriots."

Dolley grinned widely, squeezing her hand affectionately. "Just as I knew you would be."


	5. Chapter 5

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Five  
OCFF#23: No, it's Morgan Freeman.**

"I think you should have a baby."

Immediately, Marissa stilled in her actions, dropping the bedding she was holding. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to that of the naïve, sweet Dolley across from her, eyes wide with mortification and embarrassment. But her new friend, her new employer's daughter, didn't seem to notice.

"I've never really been around a baby before, but, if I'm ever going to be a mother someday, I'll need the experience of taking care of one beforehand. And, if you have a baby," the teen sighed wistfully, clasping her hands together in front of her as she got lost in the thought of a perfectly pink, unbelievably soft newborn. "It would be so beautiful, with Mr. Atwood's blue eyes and your freckles."

"A…" Stumbling over her words, the older woman gawked. "A baby?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the brunette was quick to apologize, blushing slightly. "Am I'm being too forward?"

"Well, it's just…"

"I know that I shouldn't contemplate such things, let alone speak of them, but I'd like to think that we're friends. I mean, we are, aren't we?"

"Of course, Dolley," she reassured her, reaching across the empty space of the bed to take the younger girl's hand in her own, squeezing it tightly.

"Good," the fifteen year old sighed, sounding relieved. But her reprieve was short lived. Becoming anxious once again, she tilted her head to the side, observing Marissa. "You do want children someday, don't you?"

Although she could have given Dolley a quick, easy answer, the older of the two girls decided to, once again, try to be as sincere with her as she could. Rounding the double bed, she sat down on the soft mattress, pulling the teen down beside her. Keeping their hands locked together, she slowly responded. "You know, honestly, I've never truly thought about it before, but, now, as I sit here with you, when I think about my life someday, I do see children, perhaps a little boy and a little girl. I want to someday be surrounded by a large family, generations of my own relations living around me in my old age… as odd as that is to even consider."

"And what about Mr. Atwood?"

Without meaning to, Marissa stiffened. "What about him?"

But her new friend didn't seem to notice her awkward behavior. Rather, instead of noticing her tensing, the fifteen year old laughed, rolling her eyes playfully at the older woman. "Does he want children as well?" At her slack jawed expression, Dolley giggled. "Surely, the two of you talked about… babies… before you were wed."

A third voice joining their conversation made them both turn towards the open door. "Of course, we discussed children," Ryan answered for himself. As he stepped into the bedroom, the teen stood, fidgeting with her dress as she avoided his gaze. It was quite obvious that she felt uncomfortable being in the private sleeping chambers with a man. "And Mrs. Atwood and I agree that we both want children."

"Yes, well," the brunette avoided him as she moved past him and out into the hall. "I'll be retiring now. I'll see you both at breakfast tomorrow morning. Remember, Papa likes to eat at exactly seven a.m.."

And, with that, she fluttered away, leaving the _married couple _alone, staring at each other in embarrassed silence. Finally, Marissa risked glancing at the former coachmen, watching him as he shut the bedroom door and went about taking off his boots and overcoat before joining her on the bed, sitting on the opposite side, his back towards her own.

"Sorry about the… sleeping arrangement," she eventually spoke up, referencing their shared bed, "but Dolley insisted with her father that we not have separate beds."

"How do you know this?"

"She's quite forthright."

Sighing, the man adjacent to her commented, "I see."

Without prompting, Marissa chuckled softly to herself. "She actually told Mr. Johnson that he was too old fashioned, and, astonishingly enough, he just patted her on the head, smiled, and gave her permission to do what she thought best."

"Lucky us."

"Well, at least she believes our cover," she bit out in a harsh whisper, twisting around to glare at the man she was tied to out of necessity and not necessarily by choice. In a challenging tone, she stated, "not that you've helped matters at all. What's wrong with you?"

Ryan stood, stalking across the room to change. Averting her gaze so she wouldn't see him in an inappropriate moment, she could only hear his response when he offered it. "Nothing."

Clenching the covers beneath her in both tightly fisted hands, the blonde beauty snapped, 

"don't lie to me, Mr. Atwood. I left three liars behind when I ran away from home. I won't put up with you lying to me as well."

"I just…" His words trailed off, and she recognized the sound of him tossing his clothes harshly against the wall. "Things are supposed to be different here."

"They are," Marissa insisted only for him to interrupt her, raising his voice slightly.

"For you, maybe," her sham of a husband argued, "but, for me, nothing's changed."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm still dependent upon other people to take care of me. I'm not Ryan Atwood, self-educated man here; I'm Ryan Atwood, your husband."

"Oh, please," she quarreled, narrowing her eyes in consternation despite the fact that he couldn't see her annoyed expression. "If anyone is trapped in this arrangement, it's me. You don't need me. Can I help you? Yes, of course, otherwise you would have left me as soon as I was well. But I'm not with you because I want your help; I'm with you because, without you, I'm vulnerable."

"But you're the one who got us away from Cooper Manor. It was your planning that got us on _The Newport_, to the new world, and it was you who got us both jobs, better jobs than I ever could have found on my own," Ryan pointed out, sounding discouraged and disheartened.

If she wasn't so tired, if she wasn't still regaining her strength after being sick, and if she wasn't well aware of the fact that they had a full day's work ahead of them in the morning, Marissa might have been more sympathetic to the man she was forced to cohabitate with, to share a bed with, but she wasn't. Instead, she stood up and began to change her own clothes, unmindful of the fact that her former servant could see her every movement. If they were going to convince the Johnsons that they were a married couple, they would have to do things they didn't like, and that included being more open and honest with each other, physically and emotionally.

"Look, so I found us employment. Someday, someway, you'll repay, and, until then, just be thankful… and, whatever you do, do not mess this opportunity up for us. Our positions here, in this home, are better than either of us expected, let alone deserve. I'm not trained as a lady's maid, and you've never been a personal valet before. We need to be focused on our work and not on who has done more for the other at this point."

"Like I'm supposed to believe that Julie Cooper's daughter isn't keeping tally of just how many times she's helped me," Ryan scoffed, climbing into the double bed they were to share behind her. "Tell that to someone who hasn't worked for your family for years, Marissa."

She ignored him, focusing on the task at hand of undressing. If she allowed his words to upset her, she'd end up starting a fight with the stubborn, ungrateful man, and that was the last thing they needed. Despite the fact that the Johnson's lived in a large, opulent country manor, they would no doubt hear her and Ryan arguing if they got into a row. After all, in Dolley's eyes, they were the perfect, happy couple, young and in love, idealistic and full of hope, true romantics who wanted everything together – the home, the family, the legacy of generations to follow after them. And, if nothing else, she wasn't going to shatter the young girl's dreams. If her new friend wanted to believe in fairytales, she would allow her to, going so far as to shield her from the truths of the world for as long as she could.

Just in meeting her new employer, she could tell that Dolley's father wasn't eager for his only child to grow up, get married, and leave her either, so he would assist Marissa in keeping the fifteen year old sheltered and out of society's corrupting clutches. For the young blonde, it felt as if she was getting a second chance. Her own sister, too bitter with jealousy and fits of resentment, had rebuffed her advances of companionship and advisement, but Dolley would be her second chance to help someone avoid the experiences she had been forced to suffer through and endure.

Finally undressed and in her nightclothes, she laid down in bed, pulling the covers up high under her chin. With arms clutched over top of the covers, keeping them tightly against her, Marissa dared to speak, once again, to her cohort in deceit. "Do you want…" Her words trailed off as she took a deep, cleansing breath. Despite the fact that the room was dark and neither of them could see the other, she was still uncomfortable in asking her pretense of a spouse what she wanted to know. Hurrying her words, she rushed through the inquiry. "Do you really want children?"

"Marissa?"

"I mean, obviously, you don't want them now, with me." In the dark, she bit her lip, her cheeks heating rapidly with the sheer strength of her blush. "But, if you did, how would you…"

"In theory, I think it would be nice to have a son to carry on my name someday or a daughter to protect the way…"

"The way my father didn't protect me, the way that most father's don't protect their daughters," the blonde beauty finished for him softly, admiration shining through her husky, emotion filled words.

"Yes," Ryan agreed. She could hear him swallow thickly several times before continuing. "But, at this point, children are just an idea for me. I'm young, and, without any unforeseen complications, I have many years left to live. I, um," he finally started to stumble with his answer, discovering his own humiliation. "Obviously, we would never…"

"No," she breathed out strictly, the short concurring statement putting both their troubled minds to rest.  


A few moments later, he cleared his throat, speaking up once again. "And I'm sorry about my attitude today."

"There's no need to apologize."

"Actually, there is." Although Marissa could feel him shifting in the bed to face her, she ignored his movements, staring straight up at the shadowed ceiling. "I just… I've always been the one to take care of those around me. All my life, I've served others, and, now, despite wanting to change, despite wanting more for myself, it feels odd to accept someone else's care, and, whether either of us want to admit it, in your own way, you've been taking care of me for weeks now."

Whispering, she confessed, "but you've done the same for me as well."

"Perhaps," Ryan agreed, conceding her the point, "but it's different, and you know it. Though I'm trying to adjust, it's just something that I'm going to have to get used to."

"Well, don't get too used to it," the former heiress found herself teasing, "because I think we both know how self-interested I can be."

"Aw, Cooper, you're not as selfish as you'd like me to believe. But don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Which one?"

"All of them," her charade of a husband promised, settling back down in the bed. Moments later, he offered, "Goodnight, Marissa."

"Goodnight, Mr. Atwood."


	6. Chapter 6

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Six  
OCFF#24: I don't do that kind of thing.**

Gideon Johnson was a very peculiar man.

No taller than five foot, four inches and frail, his physical appearance did not inspire fear or inspiration. However, his eyes, sharp, clear, and focused gray orbs of flint, spoke of an inner strength and determination Ryan only, one day, dreamed of having himself. Intelligent and wise, his employer could converse on any subject, from the latest farming equipment to the history of Greek and Roman mythology, physically fit and active, he rode a horse and shot a gun more adept than any man twenty years his junior, and kind and open minded, the older gentleman was both a force to be reckoned with professionally and also a true friend. And, while, at times, the former coachman didn't quite know how to respond to Mr. Johnson's remarks and inquiries, for he was often thrown off by his blunt candor, he had nothing but respect and admiration for him, and he strived to impress the aging gentleman.

They were riding northwest from Boston, out to visit one of Gideon's friends and associates when his employer, from high atop his impressive white stallion, posed a question Ryan was very ill-prepared for. "Have you ever considered a career in the military?"

"Sir?"

"The military, boy," Mr. Johnson urged, repeating himself and brandishing his leather whip in the air for effect, never once even coming close to lowering it to his mount. "The army, the navy, surely you're familiar with both branches seeing as how you just relocated from mother England." Slowing his ride down to a steady trot instead of its former gallop, the older man pressed. "Those blasted redcoats, did you ever consider joining their ranks?"

"I can't say I have, Mr. Johnson."

"Curious," was all his employer said in reply though, puzzling the young blonde.

As their conversation fell to an awkward close, the two continued on their journey, slowly traversing the miles that stretched between the Johnson family home and their destination near Concord. It was a beautiful spring morning, though, warm enough to be pleasant but not too hot to cause discomfort in the saddle, and, instead of focusing on his boss' rather odd idiosyncrasies, Ryan was determined to enjoy his first trip outside of Juniper Hall since his arrival there a week before.

Although not necessarily a homebody, Gideon Johnson only left his manor estate when it was deemed compulsory. Business, in his life, came first, and, in his estimation, there was nowhere more conducive to productivity than his own dusty, cluttered study, so he rarely left the comforts of home. When he did, his journeys were primarily commerce related, whether he went to town to make purchases for his home or to a neighboring associate's 

residence for a meeting. According to what the elderly gentleman had told his daughter that morning during breakfast at precisely seven a.m. as always, they were traveling to meet with a man interested in renting some of their unused land for the summer. Because Juniper Hall wasn't a functioning estate, its land left to grow wild in its natural splendor, the fields were left barren of crops and could, ostensibly, be used by an interested farmer.

"I was never attracted in the military myself when I was just a lad of your age."

By bringing up their earlier topic, Gideon obviously wasn't satisfied with their previous conclusion or, as Ryan had suspected before, there was more to the gray haired gentleman's seemingly innocuous inquiry in the first place. "And has your stance on the matter changed since then, Sir?"

"Well, young Atwood, that's a very shrewd question. I wouldn't automatically say that I am now interested in the workings of the military. However," his employer grinned across the narrow strip of rough, dirt road separating their two mounts, alerting the former stable boy to the fact that he was nearing his point. "Sometimes war is required for one to achieve their desired results, and, if in a time of war, all men held the same opinion of fighting as you and I did, then who would fill the ranks of the militia, who would lead the soldiers into battle, who would map out the course of what could potentially become the next generation's destiny and all the future, subsequent generations after that's history?"

Honestly, he had never actually considered the implications of his own personal disregard for the military lifestyle, but he had to admit that Mr. Johnson's conclusion made complete and total sense. "When you put it like that, Sir…"

"Exactly, my boy," Gideon cheered, flourishing his whip for the second time that morning. "So, with that thought in mind, tell me this: if you did have to fight, in what kind of position do you see yourself?"

"Only in one that I'm qualified for, Sir," Ryan answered truthfully, solemnly. "I'm just a self-educated man with no formal training in the ways of combat. Yes, of course, I can shoot a gun, but I don't understand military technique or strategy, I'm unfamiliar with weaponry beyond a simple shotgun or rifle, and I'm certainly no talent with the sword. The only possible position I could be worthy of would be just a simple foot soldier."

"Aw, but you see," his boss disputed, holding up just one finger to signify his variance of opinion. "On this matter, the two of us disagree."

"May I ask how so, Sir?"

"While, yes, you might not have any previous knowledge of war tactics, you're still an intelligent man, Atwood. I wouldn't have you under my employ if you weren't, and, unlike many men I've come across over the years, you are capable of learning. You can read, you can write, and, perhaps most importantly when dealing with matters of the military, you know how to take orders with little explanation and can carry them out without delay or 

hesitation. You, my young valet, would make an excellent commander's aide."

Feeling both stunned by his employer's high praise and inquisitive as to why Mr. Johnson was, currently, so fixated on the ideas of arm to arm combat, Ryan remained rooted to his saddle, barely managing to move accordingly with the horse. Several minutes of silence permeated the dense, almost entirely immobile late morning air, but, still, Gideon didn't rush him for a response. Rather, the elderly gentleman showed the patience and understanding he was renowned for throughout New England, waiting, though interestedly for a reaction, in a way that didn't rush his younger servant.

Finally, the once coachman swallowed his reserves and uncertainties, simply replying as honestly as he could. "That… that means a great deal to me, Sir. Thank you for the vote of confidence. However, and let me be direct here, I simply cannot accept your recommendation without asking for a reasoning behind these somewhat uncharacteristically off topic inquires into my personal mindset and opinions. Is there something more than simple concern spurring them on?"

"Mr. Atwood, I'm sure you're well aware of the rather strained relationship between the thirteen colonies and King George at the moment?"

Without delay, he responded, "of course. It was all anyone could talk about on _The Newport _during our journey across the Atlantic two fortnights past."

"Well, for arguments sake," Gideon offered, smirking casually. "Let us say that there are certain influential gentlemen here, in America, who feel as if talks of peace and compromise have gone on long enough. If England is unwilling to budge in her autocratic regulation of trade, commerce, and politics, then those same gentlemen are determined to force her into action one way or another."

"And would that, by chance, include military force, Sir?"

"At this time," Mr. Johnson stated, "I am not at liberty to say. However, if the thirteen colonies went to war against Great Britain, and that's only an if, then I would feel it my duty to serve my home, my people, perhaps even my _new _country with everything I have to offer it, and, if I were to… oh say, become a high ranking commanding officer of, perhaps a colonel or maybe even a general's status, then I would want to surround myself with a smart, dependable, and trustworthy staff, including several top aides. In fact, at this moment, I have one in particular in mind… that is, _if _there was a war."

With wide eyes, Ryan regarded his boss, astonished by what the older man had so candidly revealed to him that morning. "I'd be honored to serve by your side, Mr. Johnson, if there was to be a war between Great Britain and the colonies."

"And your wife, Atwood?"

Wrinkling his brow, the former coachman asked, "what of her, Sir?"  


Apparently, Gideon found something amusing about his question, for he reigned in his stallion long enough to let out a rolling, merry laugh. "You haven't been married long yet, have you?"

"Why, no. Mrs. Atwood and I were only just wed right before we sailed from London about a month ago."

"Well, then, your inconsideration towards her is slightly more understandable. However," the gray haired gentleman warned him kindly, almost as a friend. "That is something you should rectify and soon. Unlike most men my age, I'm not of the mindset that a woman should have no voice in a marriage. Your decisions affect her just as much as hers affect you. By your agreeing to by my aide if and _when _there's a war, you've automatically relegated your wife into a life of constant worry, anxiety, and loneliness. While war is miserable for those who fight in it, it's even worse for the woman and children who are left at home. So, with that in mind, young Atwood, take our conversation here today and discuss your options with your wife. I will not begrudge you if you decide to rescind your offer to be my top aide in order to stay at Juniper Hall with your lovely wife and my dear daughter. In fact, selfishly, it would probably be a reassurance to me as a father if you were there to keep them safe. However, as a possible military commander, it would be both a regret and a loss to my staff if you were not serving under me in battle."

Quietly and without comment, Ryan accepted his employer's advice, promising through his silence to consult Marissa. Nevertheless, he already knew that he would be joining Mr. Johnson if the older man went off to war, for, in his sham of a marriage, his wife wouldn't mourn the loss of her husband.


	7. Chapter 7

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Seven  
OCFF#25: The Sound of Silence.**

Marissa Cooper…

No, rather, Marissa _Atwood_ was exhausted.

It wasn't that she particularly worked hard for The Johnsons; however, she was constantly doing something, and that was quite the change of pace from her former life of leisure. As a daughter of a member of the British Aristocracy, she had once had only one purpose in life: to look pretty. It wasn't a time consuming endeavor, it certainly wasn't physically exhausting, and, heaven forbid she tax her mind. So, it came as no shock to the nineteen year old that living in America, living as a part of the working class, was a rather an arduous adjustment, and, some days, it felt as if she was failing. Poorly.

Instead of her time being her own, it was now Dolley's. As a glorified companion to the younger woman, she accompanied her employer's daughter wherever Dolley wanted to go. They went to tea, they shopped in town, they took long, rambling walks around the extensive property, and they took carriage rides out into the New England wilderness. Of course, a groom accompanied them. And she did whatever Dolley wanted to do, too. She sewed and darned, gardened and baked, wrote letters and visited neighbors.

There was no quiet time with the brunette either. Her mouth was always engaged, whether through mere gossip or more scholarly subjects, and, as both her servant and, more importantly, her friend, Marissa was expected to parlay with her to the best of her ability. That meant that, not only was her body engaged all day long, but her mind was as well. After nearly two decades of existing in virtually a leisurely silence, her life had turned into chaos. And that was just during her working hours.

When alone, because she was now responsible for her own life and, ostensibly, to the rest of the world, Mr. Atwood's as well, she had other tasks to attend to. There was more cooking and cleaning, more sewing, more chores. To the once pampered social belle, there seemed to be a never ending list of things to do, and she was the only one capable, or, rather, allowed, to do them. Society dictated the fact that men were not supposed to bake pies or wash laundry. Even in America, a place of forward thinking and revolution, a woman was still beneath a man, and that was just one battle she was too exhausted to fight.

However, for the first time since she had arrived at Juniper Hall, the beautiful blonde was finally getting an evening to herself. There were no responsibilities to fulfill, no one to entertain. While Dolley and Ryan were both attending the dinner party Gideon Johnson was having that evening, she was left by herself. The young fifteen year old brunette was expected to be there because it was her father, and she served as his hostess, and, as their employer's personal valet and sometimes secretary, Ryan had been asked to join as well, leaving Marissa blissfully and appreciatively alone.  


And she had plans, too.

With no prying eyes nearby, she was, figuratively and literally, going to let her hair down. Because she was someone's wife when others were around, propriety was quickly becoming second nature to her, but, given a few hours without her new friend or her husband, she was going to take advantage of the situation and lounge around in her private chambers with her long, golden locks free and unbound, and she was going to leave off the stuffy sleeping attire she normally wore rested in every night and allow herself the comfort of lounging in bed with a good book from the manor's library in only her thin, silk chemise. It was going to be perfect.

Kicking off her shoes, Marissa started to unbutton the bodice of her plain, utilitarian gown. It was simple with little ornamentation, perfect for the hectic, on the go lifestyle of a lady's maid, and her long, slender fingers made quick work of the tiny clasps, undressing in a matter of moments. With a soft, relieving burst of air, the dress fell to the shiny, wooden floor, leaving the nineteen year old in her petticoats, pantaloons, stockings, and various other underthings.

"Oh, good, you're getting ready."

Whipping around to face the sudden intruding voice, she found her new friend smiling back at her, obliviously standing in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Mr. Atwood. Evidently, decorum at Juniper Hall did not reach the realm of knocking. Marissa sighed, relaxing slightly after realizing that her intruder was just Dolley, but, still, she was slightly put off by the younger woman's appearance and disrespect for boundaries.

However, without pausing, she went back to the task at hand, continuing to undress. "Getting ready for what?"

The brunette laughed gaily. "Why the party of course, silly. Papa said the guests shall be here in a matter of moments. You really should hurry. Here," she offered, fully stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "I'll help you."

"Dolley, I'm not attending the party."

"Of course you are," the fifteen year old argued, sounding perplexed by the very idea of Marissa _not _going. "Mr. Atwood will be there. Father wants to introduce him to some of his friends and business associates, and, as Mr. Atwood's wife, he would clearly want you by his side."

Rapidly becoming aware of the fact that she was not going to be able to dissuade the young girl, she changed tactics. "I'm sorry, but I don't think that I have anything appropriate to wear."

A mischievous smirk appeared on her employer's daughter's face. "I take it that you 

haven't found it yet then?"

"Found what?"

Joyfully, Dolley declared, "your surprise," while crossing the bedroom and throwing open the wardrobe. "I realized a few days ago that you probably wouldn't have a proper gown for this evening, and, even if you did, it's always pleasurable to get a new one. So, with that in mind, I set about having this made."

"You really shouldn't have gone through all that trouble for…"

"Oh, nonsense," the young girl waved off, interrupting and ignoring Marissa's protests. "I wanted to do this for you, it was no hassle, and, for everything that you do for Papa and I, this is the least I could do for you. All I had to do was rush my dressmaker a little and approach Mr. Atwood for his help…"

Now, it was her turn to be the one to rudely interject, not allowing the brunette to continue. "What exactly do you mean when you say you asked Mr. Atwood for his help, Dolley?"

"Well, you see, it was like this…

_Biting her lip nervously, she approached her father's study, rapping on the open wooden doorway to capture the hardworking man's attention inside. He looked up from his writing, the light from the desk lamp catching in both his intense blue eyes and off the fair hue of his hair, distracting her for a moment. Marissa truly was a lucky woman, for her husband was quite attractive._

_"Yes," he asked her, nodding his head in an invitation to enter. "What can I do for you, Miss Johnson?"_

_Instead of answering right away, she fidgeted, wringing her fingers, rubbing the toes of her dainty slippers against the oriental carpet of her Papa's office, biting the inside of her plump, rosy cheek. Finally, braving it, she cleared her throat and spoke in what she hoped would be an even tone. "I need your help."_

_"Of course."_

_"It's something for Marissa."_

_Her pronouncement made the man across from her sit back in his seat, his gaze snapping to awareness. "Is she in some kind of trouble…"_

_"Oh, no," Dolley laughed, rolling her eyes at her father's valet. "It's nothing like that. I just want to do something nice for her. You see," she started, only to suddenly find her rhythm, "it's like this. You know how my father is having his dinner party at the end of the week, correct?"  
_

_  
"Yes, I'm aware of the event. He asked me to attend."_

_"As I thought he would," she shared, taking a seat across from him. "And, as your wife, Marissa will be expected to be in attendance as well. However, I doubt she has a proper gown for the evening."_

_"Probably not," he volunteered, nodding his head in agreement._

_Continuing as if he had not spoken, the young brunette shared, "and that is something I can give to her. I've already spoken to my dressmaker, and we worked together to pick out the fabric. It's this gorgeous minty silver chiffon, and, when Marissa wears it, I fairly imagine it'll transform her normally aqua eyes into a beguiling shade of green. It'll be perfect against her pale skin and blonde hair, and she's going to look quite stunning."_

_"I have no doubt in your ability to choose fabric, Miss Johnson. However," Ryan warned, "I don't particularly see how I can be of service to you."_

_"Well, I need your help with your wife's measurements."_

_Parroting her words, the secretary repeated in question, "her measurements?"_

_"Yes," Dolley answered, standing up to gather a pen and paper in order to write down the information she was prepared for him to give her. "I'm a complete ninny when it comes to estimating sizes, but you've known Marissa for longer than I have, and, well, if anyone was to be able to inform me of her measurements, it would be you."_

_"Me?"_

_"Well, you are her husband, and the two of you…" Her voice trailed off as she blushed profusely. Unable to further look the man in the eye, the brunette readied herself, waiting for him to speak._

"It was the funniest thing I've ever seen," she shared with Marissa, giggling hysterically at the thought of Mr. Atwood stammering and stumbling over his words as he held up his hands to mimic his wife's shape, being forced to lower his hands to the desk, mark the distance between them, and then measure, hoping it would serve to help his young mistress. "And I thought I had been embarrassed when alluding to your intimate relationship with him, but never before have I seen a man, or a woman for that matter, so self-conscious, so mortified. And all I wanted to do was run to you and share the story, but I very well couldn't do that if I didn't want to ruin the surprise."

Unable to talk, Marissa simply watched as the fifteen year old behind her fastened the delicate, striking gown, but Dolley either didn't notice her silence or didn't mind it. Instead, she was too distracted by her own thoughts and recollections of Mr. Atwood's reaction to her inquiries into his wife's physique. Glancing at herself in the full length mirror of the 

wardrobe, the regal looking blonde couldn't believe the sight before her. The dress was a perfect fit. For a seamstress who had nothing to go on but the rough estimations of a rather inept man, the ball gown was flawless, and it made her wonder why.

Was the local, Bostonian dressmaker simply more talented than her young friend had given her credit for, or did her husband know her body that well?

The first thought was surprising, even shocking. After all, if a woman was that gifted, that brilliant with a needle, why was she working in America? In London, she would be able to design gowns for the wealthiest and more important women in all of Great Britain, but, in the colonies, she was just another lady with a needle. However, if it was the second option, she was both astounded and slightly flattered. Though she certainly wasn't in love with Mr. Atwood or even friends with him, the fact that he potentially found her form so enchanting that he paid such detailed attention to it was a thrilling thought. It had been a long time since she had felt truly attractive, and, even if the pleasure only lasted the evening, she was grateful for it.

Finally ready, she and Dolley slipped out of her private quarters arm and arm, floating down the grand staircase at Juniper Hall to the foyer below where both Gideon Johnson and her husband were silently waiting for them. Both men followed their every move with curiosity, patience, and, in Ryan's case, Marissa found herself wondering if perhaps in slight fascination as well.

It was the first time since she had left home that she sincerely felt happy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Eight  
OCFF#26: Standing all alone in a black coat.**

It was late by the time he returned to Juniper Hall, battered and bruised, travel weary and exhausted. What was supposed to have been a routine check of supplies had turned into what very well could be the first battle of the war between the thirteen colonies and their mother country, Great Britain. And he had been right in the thick of it.

A few weeks prior, they had been warned by a Doctor Joseph Warren, a rebel sympathizer who had gotten wind of some British movements, that, somehow, the enemy had found out about their hidden weapons in Lexington, forcing them to work secretively during the night to move the rifles and ammunition to a new, safe location. Although they had managed to redirect most of the supplies, some had been left in the small farming town northwest of Boston, and his employer had sent him there the day before to help with the emergency removal. It was there where what had been planned had been replaced by the last thing many had expected.

While he had been riding towards his destination, others had been spreading the word of an imminent British attack upon Lexington, and, when he arrived in the tiny, rural hamlet, an odd assortment of armed colonists had been assembled ready to defend both their honor and their illegal weapons stock. Without a chance to consider the implications of his actions, Ryan had joined in the melee; he had heard the very first shot being fired between the Patriots and the British Regulars, not sure if it had been his gun to have unleashed the fateful bullet.

The major fighting, however, didn't occur in Lexington. Rather, the redcoats and the Massachusetts Militia moved their attentions to Concord, a neighboring town. The fighting centered around the North Bridge of the village, and, there, the militia and colonists, together, fought off three well trained, well equipped British companies of professional soldiers. The Redcoats suffered heavy damages, being forced to withdrawal and march back to Boston.

Despite the fact that some weapons and supplies were lost to the confiscating troops, the day had been an unchallenged victory for the Rebels, one he would have been celebrating with his fellow Patriots as they started the siege of Boston in order to drive out the enemy, but, instead, he had ridden all the way back home to the Johnson's estate, not to inform his boss of the day's events but to rest and recuperate, for he was injured.

In fact, he was not only injured, but he was shot.

Forgoing his duties, he slipped into the private sleeping chambers he shared with Marissa, attempting to move as quietly and as surreptitiously through the impressive house without alerting its residents to his presence. Detection would cause panic once they realized he was hurt, and that was the last thing he wanted. What he wanted was to go to sleep. Feeling 

feverish, his weakened body was ready to drop, and the former coachman wasn't sure he would be able to withstand either questioning about his injury or concern.

"Where have you been?"

Evidently, though, his pretend wife was not going to allow him the dignity to convalesce in peace, the luxury to rest without interrogation. But he ignored her, making his way slowly towards the bed she already occupied. Not willing to meet the blonde's questioning gaze, Ryan watched his own feet move unsurely across the smooth, clean, wooden floors of their bedroom, his right, injured side dragging just slightly behind the unharmed left. Finally reaching the haven the blanket covered mattress would provide him with, he collapsed onto the soothing planes of the bed, sighing in relief and contentment.

"What's wrong?"

This time there would be no denying Marissa's inquires. He could hear the worry in her voice, no doubt concern about their cover and not about his health, and the personal valet knew she wouldn't stop pestering him until he offered her, at least, some sort of information by way of explanation. "Just tired."

"Well, if you wouldn't stay out all night, you might have a chance to sleep." He could hear her rustling behind him, the bed linens sounding loud in the otherwise silent stillness of their room, but, when he felt her hand on his arm, he jerked away in surprise, her slight gasp of shock and awareness making him more alert than he had been the entire journey home. "Are you ill, Mr. Atwood?"

"It's nothing," he dismissed, attempting to shrug her away. However, in his weakened state, he was both physically incapable of doing so and unsuspecting of her tenacity.

"No, it's something," Marissa argued, her cool, refreshing fingers moving from his fully dressed arm to his blazing forehead where she could get a more accurate reading of his temperature. "Perhaps a spring fever," the woman he was pretending to be married to suggested, her disdain for such an illness evident in her tone. Mumbling under her breath, she remarked, "if I had known you had such a weak constitution…"

Finally managing to pull away from her, he stood, wobbling noticeably on his feet before awkwardly stripping out of his black coat. It fell noisily to the floor, pooling at his still booted feet. "Go back to sleep," the secretary ordered, quickly lifting his gaze towards the blonde beauty's across from him, his lighter blue orbs willing her to, just once, listen to him.

"I'm not going to be able to rest until I know that you're going to be alright. Just like you took care of me last month, I'm going to make sure that, whatever it is you're suffering from, you recover as well." Mortified, Ryan watched as she stood from the bed, pulling on a dressing gown over her nightclothes. Despite the fact that he felt as if he was burning from the inside out, he knew that the April air was still cool at night, and, briefly, before her scantily clad form was covered more appropriately, he caught a tantalizing, teasing glance 

of her puckered breasts through the thin cotton of her chemise. "I'm sure the Johnsons would help, too. Gideon and Dolley won't want you to be sick anymore than I do, so, just let me go and wake them, and we'll…"

"No," he barked out, his voice harsher than he had intended. However, it worked. Marissa stopped moving towards the door, she paused in her tracks, and she slowly turned around to face him, a confused and worried expression marring her otherwise smooth and pretty face. "If you promise not to say anything, I'll confide in you what's wrong."

"So, then, you already know?"

Nodding, the young man answered her question without words, slowly unbuttoning his soiled shirt to reveal his injury. The audible gasp of the nineteen year old former heiress alerted him to just when exactly she noticed his gunshot wound, and, before he could reassure her that it was just a graze, that he was more worried about the infection that could come from such an injury than he was the actual lesion, she was at his side, carefully leading him back to the bed.

"Oh, Ryan," she sighed, her former formality forgotten in the face of such agitation. "You're shot." And, despite the fact that she was merely stating the obvious, he found her concern, the fact that she was distractedly biting her full bottom lip to the point of pain as she worried about him, to be oddly endearing, so he smiled in her direction, taking her shaking hand in his much steadier, albeit warmer, one.

"Hey," the valet reassured her, giving her smooth, long fingers a gentle squeeze. "I'll be alright."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite," he promised.

"Can you," Marissa started only to stop and pause, apparently reconsidering her question, but then she started again, her shoulder straightening with both resolve and determination. "Can you tell me what happened?"

As she worked to help him clean and dress the wound, he did. He told her about how Gideon had sent him to Lexington to help move the secretly amassed weapons, how he had been met with skirmishers prepared to face off against the British Regulars, and how he had moved with them during the entire morning as they fought off the enemy. And then he told her about how war, at that point, would be almost inevitable, seeing as how hostile shots had been fired from both sides, and how he was prepared to go off and fight with their employer. Throughout his entire explanation, the formerly pampered woman never interrupted, never showed signs of being faint at the sight of the blood from his injury, and she never attempted to dissuade him from his plans.

Finally finished with his clarification, Ryan posed, "what do you think?"  


"Does what I think have any actual credence with you," she returned, not answering his query but asking one of her own instead. "After all, I'm not actually your wife, and you are not actually my husband."

"Yes, but, all the same," he argued, needing to know what her reaction would be, "I'd like a response anyway."

Her words of reply were not quickly offered or lightly uttered. Rather, the onetime stable hand could tell that she put a great deal of thought into her rejoinder before offering it to him. "I'm not a fan of bloodshed," Marissa started, prefacing her next statement. "But, with that in mind, I'm also not a fan of bullies, of those who believe they have power exercising it unjustly over those who don't. Any form of leadership, of guidance, should be offered but not forced, and, when provided, it should be given with the thought of the better good in mind and not what is best for a select, elite few. Great Britain and King George have not been acting with the colonists' best interest in mind for year now, so, if those who study and understand politics feel that war is the most prudent course of action, then I will fully support them. I'll do whatever I can from here at Juniper Hall to aide their efforts; I will sew and darn, grow food for the militia's consumption, and I will treat those injured if I have to. This – America – is my home now, and I will do anything to protect it."

Swallowing roughly, he simply blinked in concurrence, for there was no need for him to state with words either his approval of her sentiments or his agreement. However, she still had not fully answered his question. "But what about my part in the upcoming conflict – do you or do you not want me to fight?"

Standing up from her kneeling position, the stunning blonde busied herself with putting their pitcher of now red tinted, dirty water back on its stand, with helping him recline back in bed before crossing the room to crawl under the covers herself. It wasn't until they were both completely ready to go to sleep that she finally responded, amazing him, once again, with her softly spoken yet sincere statements. "Of course, I do not wish harm upon you. Whatever happens with this confrontation between the colonies and Great Britain, I want all of us – you, me, Dolley, and Gideon - to walk away safe and healthy. However, with that said, I know that, even if you don't fight, danger and injury and even death could still manage to find you, to find all of us, really. Plus, I don't think you'd be able to look at yourself in the mirror if you were not to fight. If nothing else, Mr. Atwood, you've always been a proud man, even when you were just some skinny, dirty orphan my father took a chance on and employed. You've never begged, you've never belittled yourself in order to earn an easy coin, and, in your own way, you've always tried to do what you believe to be right and just."

"And you know all of this how," he asked, somewhat amused.

"While you might believe me to be just some self-obsessed, spoiled brat, there is more to me than what meets the eye, Sir."

"I'm well aware, Marissa."

"And, with that in mind, I often observed those around me," she shared, not pausing long enough to accept his slight compliment. "A person – man or woman – can learn a lot from just watching, from just listening. Besides," she added, a note of mischief to her voice, "_you_ were far from difficult to read." Even though she couldn't see him, he tilted his head in acceptance before she pressed on. "Anyway, the point I was trying to make was that I feel you should do whatever is right for you. If that is going off to fight in the upcoming war, then so be it. Just promise me that you'll be safe."

"Why, _Mrs. Atwood_," he teased her, a rare chuckle coloring his words. "If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were worried about me."

"Nonsense," the woman pretending to his wife quipped with no sign of amusement or humor to her words. "I just simply can't have you dying on me. You haven't managed to teach me how to ride a horse without a sidesaddle yet, that's all."

And, with that, his full-fledged belly laugh carried them both off to sleep late that April night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Nine  
OCFF#27: Tender Heart Treasures.**

Readjusting herself on the hard wooden bench of the supply wagon, Marissa stifled a pained groan. She was sore – ached in places she previous had no knowledge of existence, and it wasn't a pleasant ache gained from an enjoyable evening of dancing until dawn or going riding all afternoon on a picturesque fall day. Rather, it was the back breaking, pain inducing aches of hard, manual labor, and, to make it worse, she had absolutely no outlet for the throbbing tenderness. Seeing as how her only source of companionship over the past two days had been her silent, thoughtful employer, she had no means of complaint either.

So, instead, she filled the silent hours shared between them with careful observation and an inner monologue no lady should ever entertain. However, the roads were dusty due to their recent spring drought and the fact that they were heavily traveled, so the clouds of dirt the wagon wheels and the horses' hooves created obscured her view, making the foliage hazy and her eyes burn with irritation. As for the private conversation she had been having with herself on their little sojourn through the New England countryside, she had long since wearied of the sound of her own thoughts, meaning that, not only was she tired and sore, but she was also miserable with loneliness.

Although Gideon Johnson was a fair and, oftentimes, generous boss, he was not one for idle chitchat. Every last word that left his mouth held a purpose, and, when there was no knowledge for him to impart, no lessons for him to offer, and no advice or instructions for him to give, he remained still and quiet, ostensibly perfectly content with either the nothingness that surrounded them or the inner workings of his own mind. Marissa neither knew nor had the courage to ask him which was his current source of distraction. Rather, she matched his calm, while, the whole time, counting down the miles until they finally returned back to Juniper Hall.

Two days before, without prior notice, her boss had informed her at breakfast that they would be leaving that morning together in order to find, purchase, and pick up supplies that would, hopefully, carry her, his daughter, and the rest of the staff through to, at least, the end of the year. With war rapidly advancing to their doorstep and he and Ryan due in Philadelphia in a month's time, they would soon be alone, and he wanted to make sure that they had everything they could possibly need while he was gone. If things went according to plan at the convention, the two men would not be returning home, and it could months, even years, before the four of them saw each other again. Plus, with the British Army contained in Boston with the siege, they would not be traveling to town for supplies whenever they desired a new trinket or a few pounds of sugar.

Unfortunately, however, Gideon's plans to stock his home with food, clothing, tools, and even seed for next year's plantings meant that they had to scavenge the local, smaller settlements safely outside the Boston city limits. From one general store to another, they drove the first day, stopping only long enough to sleep a few hours in the back of the wagon 

on shifts before continuing with their rummaging. Despite the fact that he was an extremely wealthy man, her employer seemed to care little about comfort and barely enough about convenience and necessity. But she refused to complain, pretending to be just as unaffected by the impromptu trip as the older gentleman was himself.

Normally, Ryan or another of the lesser but just as trustworthy servants would have been sent with her on such an errand, but, because Ryan was still recovering from his gunshot wound, and because of the increased danger with the militia moving to and from the city on all the back roads, Gideon had felt it his duty to go with his daughter's ladies maid, both as a source of protection and also so he could supervise the purchases. Not that he distrusted Marissa, but, because so much product had to purchased in bulk, he wanted to make sure nothing was forgotten or overlooked.

And, so, there they were – an odd pair, at first glance, traveling through the New England wilderness together, their wagon overflowing with barrels of foodstuffs, reams of fabric, and a wide assortment of anything and everything she and Dolley might need at Juniper Hall during the next twelve months, Gideon in his impossibly spotless lightweight summer suit and she in just a simple, plain work dress with more than enough wrinkles for the both of them. Luckily, they were just a few miles shy of home and the hot soak that was awaiting her in the bathtub, a soak that would, with a bit of luck, help alleviate some of her discomfort, at least, of the physical nature. As for someday being at ease and relaxed in her boss' companionship, Marissa had little hope of that ever happening.

"Has my daughter told you anything about her beloved mother, god rest her soul?"

Unprepared for the graying man's comments directed towards her, it took the young nineteen year old several long, perceptibly inept moments to adjust to the sudden introduction of conversation before she could readily reply to her employer's question. "Not much," she allowed before expanding upon her statement. "She has shown me Mrs. Johnson's likeness in the small portrait she has of her. She has told me of her passing at such a young age, about how much you loved her, and of how she misses her despite the fact that, obviously, she has no memory of her."

"I see," Gideon observed. "To my surprise, then, Dolley has been quite reserved with you on the topic of her mother."

"Sir?"

"Oh, there's no reason to play coy with me," her boss instructed. "While I might love my little girl with all my heart, I do know that she has a penchant for being quite forward with even the most unknown of strangers, and, seeing as how she considers you her friend, I do not have to inquire into the details of your relationship to know that she is both forthright with you on her own life and intrusive with yours. I'm afraid Dolley's lack of propriety when it comes to privacy is my fault, though. I raised her to be inquisitive, to believe that she had a right to know whatever it is she desired to have knowledge of, and I was never good at providing boundaries for my daughter."  


"Well, if we are being so blunt, Mr. Johnson," Marissa prefaced her next statement. "Then let me assure you that I do not mind Dolley's intrusive nature. We are friends, you see, and, even though I've never been close with another girl before, I do believe we are supposed to gossip and laugh carelessly with each other, especially about the more personal details of our lives."

"As long as you are not offended…"

"I am not, Sir," the blonde reassured the older man. "And, now, if I may also be just as candid with you as well, may I inquire as to why you introduced your dearly departed wife into the conversation?"

"Aw, yes," Gideon smiled slightly, revealing the fact that, when he was truly happy, there was the barest glimmer of a single dimple in his right cheek. "When I met Dolley's mother, Anne, I was already quite old. In fact, some believed that I would forever live the life of a bachelor."

"But you fell in love and astonished everyone by marrying," she speculated hopefully, finally letting go, if only for a moment, of her wariness around her employer.

"Sadly, no," the petite man revealed. "To be more precise, I realized that, as a man of both wealth and stature, I needed to marry if only to ensure that I had an heir upon my passing, but I found that most of the women of my standing to be boring, to be too emotionless and perfunctory. They couldn't have an independent thought of their own if their future depended upon it, and, if I was going to marry, I, at least, wanted a wife who would be a good conversationalist, a friend, someone I could spend my evenings with in relative comfort and camaraderie. That proved to be a harder thing to find than I anticipated.

"Anne I just happened to meet one day on a whim. We, innocently enough, bumped into each other at the market, in a similar fashion as did you and my daughter, and, after I helped her pick up the things I clumsily spilled from her reticule, we conversed quite easily with each other for several moments until her mother approached and we were separated. On that very day, I decided that I was going to marry that beautiful woman from the marketplace, no matter who she was or what anyone thought, and, as it turns out, many people had quite a bit to say about our relationship."

Hazarding a guess again, Marissa suggested, "did they not approve of your age difference?"

"Oh, bunkum," Gideon objected, laughing at the very idea. "Nobody really cares about age, Mrs. Atwood. Society didn't approve of our relationship because I was a member of the elite, and Anne was nothing but a poor farmer's daughter, something I think you have knowledge of yourself seeing as how you and your husband, I suspect, came from dissimilar ranks of reputation and wealth as well. But that is neither here nor there. My point is that, while, initially, I did not marry for adoration, that did not stop me from learning to appreciate and to love my wife over time. In fact, for several years, it was just the two of 

us, living alone with only a few servants at Juniper Hall, and we were quite content. You see, for some reason, my Dear Anne had a difficult time conceiving."

Despite the fact that Marissa was blushing, clearly embarrassed with the turn the conversation had taken, her boss didn't seem to notice and continued on. "For many years, we thought having a child of our own would be impossible, but, despite the fact that my very reason for marrying had initially been to make an heir, I was content with my decision to join myself to my wife in holy matrimony for other, more selfish reasons. But, then, we received a miracle and found out that we were expecting a child. Anne was overjoyed with delight and pleasure. Never have I seen a woman more beautiful with child than my wife was, and she was so excited to give us the gift of a baby.

"When she passed away during childbirth, I realize now that I could have become bitter with her loss and blamed my only daughter for her death, but, at that time, I just couldn't. After all, Dolley was her mother's daughter in every sense of the word. She looked like her, she smiled like her, and, eventually, she grew up to think and behave like her as well. The love I had for my wife was transferred onto my daughter, and she, in turn, became the most important person in the world to me."

"I think it's wonderful, Sir, admirable even, how much you love Dolley," the ladies maid complimented her employer. "I know for a fact that my own father couldn't say those same things about me or my sister. However, I must admit to being curious as to why you are telling me all of this. After all, I am just one of your many servants. I am no one of…"

"Marissa," Gideon interrupted her, bringing the wagon to a stop so he could turn to face her. "If nothing else should have been made clear to you during our conversation just now, I would hope that you have realized that money, and social standing, and gender hold little relevance or importance to me. You are not just a servant; you are my daughter's friend, her most trusted confidant, and you are the woman that I am leaving her care and guidance to while I am gone. There are certain provisions I have made in case I am grievously wounded on the battlefield, and I needed you to be made aware of who I am so that you could make the proper decisions as to my little girl's future if the necessity ever arose. While I have no plans of dying while away at war, that is a possible outcome that I have to be prepared for, and, in turn, you must be prepared to act as my stand-in if the situation ever developed."

She went to reply, she went to stumble and stutter her way through some kind of response, but her boss prevented her from doing so with a slight chuckle and then a quick flick of his wrist as he restarted the slowly moving, exhausted horses once again. Apparently, as far as Gideon Johnson was concerned, their conversation was concluded; there was nothing left for her to say and nothing that he expected her to share. Really, though, she should not have been taken aback by the older man's eccentricity. After all, it certainly wasn't the first time she had witnessed it, and, she hoped, it wouldn't be the last either, because, if so, that meant that she was, ostensibly, the only parental figure her fourteen year old heiress of ward would have left.

So, essentially, not only had she been _married_ just recently, but she had also, seemingly, skipped past the first decade and a half of motherhood to arrive at the responsibilities awaiting a parent with a teenage daughter. It was no wonder that it felt as if her life was moving at warp speed, like she was simply along for the ride with absolutely no control or say. Oddly enough, though, in the very same breath, the sensation was exhilarating, and she wouldn't trade it for any form of stability life had to offer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Ten  
OCFF#28: I hate that bitch. I want to cut her face.**

She had been relegated to the kitchen. For the first time in her life, her presence was not only frowned upon in polite society, but it was downright forbidden. Even as a lady's maid, Marissa was no longer considered a member of the social class. Rather, she was a servant, a servant who was allowed to accompany her employer to and from social engagements but excluded from actually enjoying the teas, parties, and balls herself.

And Mrs. Edith Stewart had been more than willing to inform her of such an arrangement.

Standing in the center of the older woman's kitchen, the nineteen year old former heiress could admit to herself that she hated her new neighbor. Despite the fact that convention dictated such rules, the true reason why the wife and mother did not want her sitting in on her brunch was because she wanted to alienate Dolley from anyone who was her friend and protector. Without Marissa at her side, Dolley was weak and open to attack, and Mrs. Edith Stewart relished nothing more so than to bring pain and suffering upon others. However, her animosity towards her employer's daughter was legendary and based upon a personal grudge.

When still a Miss, Edith had been one of those _silly _women vying for Gideon's affections, and, when he turned her away without even a second glance in favor of a poor farmer's daughter, she was humiliated. Her hate for Gideon was then placed upon his wife and, when she passed away, his daughter. It did not matter that she had eventually married a man of good standing and breeding, that she lived a comfortable, financially stable life, and that she had two grown children with her husband. The slight from years past still burned brightly in her memory, and Dolley was walking into a veritable lion's den vulnerable without the slightest idea of what was waiting for her. After all, despite her burning ire, Mrs. Stewart could not publically announce her animosity, but it was well known amongst the servant circle, and Marissa had gotten wind of it during her very first week at Juniper Hall, and, while she could have warned her friend and mistress of such a personal affront upon her, she knew that Dolley would prefer to be oblivious to such hostility, so she left her to her idyllic hopes and illusions.

However, she was perfectly aware of the game their neighbor was playing, and Edith had made a tactical mistake in alienating the blue eyed blonde. After all, whether she liked to admit it or not, she was Julie Cooper's daughter, so she had been taught a few suddenly useful, dirty tricks over the years, and she was not above applying them to the older woman. First thing first, though, with what she knew to be hours to kill, she took a seat at the kitchen table, propping one foot up underneath her and her dress despite the fact that it wasn't a polite way to sit and that the hem of her clothing would undoubtedly become dusty from her boot, and pulled out the letter she had hidden underneath the loose fabric she had tossed into the wicker container just in case she found herself in a position to work while out for the morning.  


Ryan and Gideon had been gone, now, for several weeks. After recovering from his slight gunshot wound, the two of them had set off on horseback for Philadelphia and had been there ever since. When her first letter from the man pretending to be her husband arrived, she had been shocked, but, after closer inspection and some insightful thinking, she realized that it must have been penned at their employer's behest. If nothing else, Mr. Johnson was a firm believer in the social pleasantries between husband and wife, and, even though Marissa suspected he knew much more about their relationship than either she or Ryan wanted him to, he still insisted that they treat each other with common decency, respect, and, sometimes, even a modicum of affection. So, with those caveats in mind, she read the former coachman's letters, never believing them to mean anything more than what they really were.

_Dear Mrs. Atwood,_

_Today, we shall be meeting again at the Continental Congress. Although discussion has been continual, now, for several days on the topic at hand, Gideon, his friends and colleagues, and, even I, in my own humble opinion, believe that the men there will soon reach an agreement to organize a regular army. However, there will likely be little to no argument on one rather vital matter: that of who shall lead these men into battle._

_George Washington, a planter from Virginia who has both surveying experience and leadership capabilities which he showcased during the French and Indian War, should be named the Commander-in-Chief, a heady if not intimidating position considering the state in which the military is currently in at this moment. Not only will he be responsible for organizing new troops, but he'll have to somehow manage to fold in the colonial militias already assembled, find weapons and supplies, and put together a staff below him. However, his most daunting task may be to locate gunpowder seeing as how the colonies are unbelievably short of the war staple and necessary product, something the British, as we both know, have plenty of. You wouldn't have happened to smuggle any in amongst your dresses and such when we crossed the Atlantic, did you?_

_Alas, though, on a more serious level, I must confess the truth of something to someone, and, seeing as how, whether we like the situation or not, you and I are currently each other's only confident, I'm afraid you are the one I must unburden myself upon. I once admitted to you that I desired to be a great man, but I now doubt whether or not I have what it takes to someday become one. As I sit in these meetings, day after day after day, the unbearable heat of a Pennsylvania summer bearing down upon me, the only thought in mind is of leaving the convention, of going outside where there is fresh air and a cooling breeze, of escaping the incessant arguing that occurs between these great men I am surrounded by. Gideon seems just as bored with the goings on, but, because he is already important enough to give off such a disinterested air, he does not _

_mind his yawns or his slouched, miserable position. However, I feel as if I must, and such diligence makes an already unending day seem even longer._

_That is enough about me, however, especially since it is not really your job or duty to listen to my personal woes. I hope all is well for both you and Miss Johnson at Juniper Hall, that you have found the weather to be pleasant, each other's company to be entertaining, and your health to be robust and fortifying. However, if either of you are bored, I have stumbled upon an idea for you._

_Several eminent women here in the Philadelphia area have established Ladies Associations, groups who raise money to support the war effort. This money goes directly to the army to help purchase supplies, medicines, and bandages. Also, of course, there are also the efforts to roll and make bandages as well, and, as the fighting continues to increase between us the Redcoats, we will need all the bandages women like you and Miss Johnson can prepare for us. Between your… heritage and Miss Johnson's connections in and around Boston, I'm sure any society the two of you start will be a great success._

_Please, give my salutations to our mistress, inform her that her father is well and that I shall pester him into dictating to me a letter for her very soon, and may providence keep you both well and safe._

_Sincerely,  
Your Loyal Husband__  
__  
_And, just like that, she knew exactly what she was going to do to Mrs. Edith Stewart. Folding the letter back up, Marissa, once again, hid it underneath the fabric filling her basket to capacity, and, glancing around the large, spacious room, she made sure that no one was in sight before rising to her feet and moving quietly about the space. First, she needed to find evidence to support her plan, and she knew, just knew, that the sallow faced, black, beady eyed, pinched looking forty-something year old neighbor she abhorred so much would be just the woman to break such important Patriotic rules.

Her snooping paid off, too. Locked away in a pie cabinet, the nineteen year old spotted a perfectly folded British flag and other various pieces of Loyalist paraphernalia. Evidently, Edith was prepared to support whichever army was more advantageous to her own personal gain. Despite the fact that her friends and neighbors were all steadfast Colonialists, and despite the fact that her husband and two sons were in Boston with the Massachusetts Militia, she had enough Tory belongings to convince even General Gage of her unwavering support. And her discoveries didn't stop there either.

Banding together, Patriot women, through an intricate chain of gossip and communication that spanned the farthest northern regions of New England down to the balmy, coastal city 

of Savannah in Georgia, had decided to boycott all British made products in order to show their support for the colonies and to display their absolute opposition to anything associated with King George, Great Britain, and the mother country. However, Mrs. Stewart, while a proud, staunch Rebel in public and in the company of her friends, had not subscribed to such ideals and had stocked her kitchen and pantries with many British supplies, and, although Marissa could not go to Dolley with her morsels of information, she could spread the news along the rumor mill that circled between all the local servants, knowing full well that, eventually, the data would be delivered into the right hands, effectively ruining Edith and rendering her a social outcast.

Shuddering at the thought, even she could admit that her mother would be proud.

But her efforts wouldn't stop there. Just as Ryan had suggested in his letter, she would approach Dolley with the idea of a Ladies Association. They could hold bazaars and balls, festivals and fêtes, any number of socially acceptable functions to raise money for the Continental Army. All the meetings would be held at Juniper Hall, and, while they discussed the plans for such events, the women would all work on rolling and sewing bandages that could be sent to the troops. And, unlike at Mrs. Stewart's, Marissa would convince her mistress to let the servants stay in the room, knowing full well that they would be flaunting social tradition but doing so regardless. After all, as a servant herself, she knew that they, too, had good ideas, and every available hand to the cause should and would be welcomed to their association, whether that hand was tan and freckled from hard work in the sun's exposure or dainty and protected by kid gloves.

Hearing the women preparing to depart, the nineteen year old gathered her own accoutrements, putting on her hat and gloves, once again, and retaking her large, wicker basket in her arms. Leaving the kitchen through the back entrance, she made her way around the large, stately house to wait for Dolley at the main, front door, and, soon enough, the younger woman joined her. Shoulders crest fallen and dejected, face seemingly permanently stained with round, red imperfections of mortification upon the apples of her cheeks, the otherwise always bubbly and vivacious brunette was weighed down with the insults heaped upon her during such a short social function, and, not able to hold back her ideas any longer, Marissa turned to the younger woman before they even reached the carriage that would take them back home, grasping Dolley's hand in her own and smiling widely down at the petite girl of fourteen.

"So," she confessed, her rich, sapphire eyes alight with mischief. "I have a plan." _  
__  
_


	11. Chapter 11

**The Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Eleven  
OCFF#29: Pack up and go.**

The house loomed behind them – immense, empty, haunting. Juniper Hall was a home meant to be filled with happy, smiling faces, but, now, as the two lone inhabitants stood side by side watching the last of the help pull away in their wagon, they were the only remaining dwellers. They left for various reasons, mainly because their families needed them at home while the men went off to fight in the war, but, nevertheless, it was a frightening prospect, and Marissa couldn't help but wonder if this was just one of the events Gideon had attempted to prepare her for that day almost two months ago when they were out searching for supplies together.

However, she wasn't going to focus on her trepidation. After all, technically, she was in charge. Because Dolley was five years her junior, it was her responsibility to look after the younger woman, to protect her, to reassure her even if she herself was in need of some reassurance. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment, for, in essence, she was in command of an entire household despite the fact that she had only a slight, pampered fourteen year old to assist her. But her charge couldn't know of her fear, so, pushing aside her worries and anxiety, Marissa turned towards the brunette, smiling brightly.

"Follow me."

Dutifully, Dolley listened, trailing after her ladies maid. As her shadow, they moved about the property, circling the large, stately mansion, bypassing the extensive gardens, and, eventually, came to a stop at the stables. Due to the fact that their progression had been rather hurried, both girls were slightly out of breath by the time they reached the impressive barns, and, to gather themselves, they paused momentarily to lean against the paddock's railings.

She could tell that her friend wanted to know what they were doing there, but, still, Marissa remained silent. She needed the peace and tranquility to formulate a plan, and she knew that being inside wouldn't afford her that luxury. But out in the open, far from the constraints of polite society and where no lady would voluntarily go by herself without a groomsman to help her, she felt like she could breathe again. For some reason or another, despite the fact that Ryan had moved on past his old position for her parents as their family's coachman, she associated the stables and the animals they housed with her made-up husband, and thinking of Ryan reminded her of just exactly how far she had already come in life with only the help of a poor, orphaned upstart. And she needed that level of confidence.

Moments passed into minutes, and the minutes deepened into more than an hour, but, still, neither of the two young women spoke. While she watched the nothing that surrounded them, listened to the quiet of the nothing enveloping them, she could feel the brunette's deep, rich gaze upon her, studying her, scrutinizing her, attempting to emulate her outward 

serenity. And, then, finally, when the noon day, summer sun reached its pinnacle in the sky, Marissa knew exactly what they were going to do.

They were going to survive, to the best of their ability, without the assistance of either man or woman - just the two of them with the support of everything the moneyed estate had to offer. And, if she didn't have a plan as to how they were going to do such a thing, she, at least, had a place to start.

"Your father has a summer pasture for the horses, doesn't he?"

"I believe so, yes," Dolley answered, her voice, hesitant at first, gaining strength with every word she uttered.

"Do you think that you could show me where it is, and, if not, do you happen to know where he keeps the plans to the property?"

The fourteen year old grinned impishly, blushing profusely. "I can show you."

"Really," Marissa teased, elbowing her friend slightly while returning her playful smile. "And, for some reason, I do believe there is a story behind your knowledge." When her charge went to speak, she stopped her, holding up one slender, graceful hand. "Will you save it for our walk, though," she requested, quickly moving to strip out of her dress. As she unfastened the hampering garment, the younger girl stared at her in shock and dismay.

"What… what are you doing?"

"We're about to drive every single one of your father's prized, thoroughbred horses into a far field during the hottest point of a June day. It's going to be too hot to wear our dresses, so I'm, at least, going to go in my chemise."

"But that's scandalous," Dolley protested, her own daintily gloved hand flying up to her open, plumped mouth. "Why, if anyone saw us…"

"No one will."

"But, still…"

"I'd rather flaunt society's rules than suffer from heat stroke, personally," the blonde remarked, interrupting her friend. "However, the choice is yours. Besides," she smirked, preparing herself to level a challenge at the teenager. "Think of it as an adventure. Isn't it rather pleasurable to do something that's so wrong?"

Her employer's daughter giggled, rolling her eyes despite the fact that she was rapidly attempting – and failing – to catch up to her lady's maid as she undressed. "Do you promise to keep this a secret?"

"Of course," Marissa pledged to her, crossing her index finger over the portion of her chest where her heart resided. "Forever and always."

Several minutes later when they were both in nothing but their pantaloons and thin underclothes, the two girls set out, first darting over to the gate to quickly allow the horses to leave their tight confines. As if reveling in their newfound freedom as well, the regal, awe inspiring animals took off at a rapid clip, galloping ahead of their mistresses only to stop, play, and munch on the plentiful grass several hundred yards ahead. Starting after them, they followed the animals' path, weaving in and around the tall meadow at a leisurely pace.

"Before you tell me your story," the nineteen year old prefaced, there are a few ideas I want to run by you." Dolley nodded, signaling for her to continue. "Well, first of all, the reason I want to relocate the horses to the back, summer pasture is because we really won't have any use for them anymore. I certainly can't operate a carriage, and I know that you can't either, and, without a coachman, we'd either have to ride sidesaddle or walk anywhere that we need to go. All the neighbors are close enough that it would be a waste of time to get the horses out and struggle ourselves to seat them with the proper riding equipment. See," she lightened her voice, shaking her head in feigned irritation. "This is exactly why I wanted Mr. Atwood to teach me how to ride bareback."

"Oh," the brunette gasped, laughing gaily. "I couldn't imagine doing something like that."

"Well, get used to the idea, because, as soon as your father and," she paused, recollected herself, "my husband return home on leave, I'm going to insist that we receive our very first lesson."

"Papa will never agree to that."

"He will," Marissa assured her, offering the petite girl beside her a playful wink. "I can guarantee you that."

But Dolley just shook her head in delight, in doubt. "What else did you want to run by me?"

"Well, I was thinking that, since it's only going to be the two of us living in the house, we should probably close off most of the rooms, only keep open the ones we need. We could cover up the furniture with sheets, close all the drapes, and, then, not have to worry about the upkeep on those unused spaces."

Nodding in approval, her charge agreed, "that seems wise."

"Also, despite the fact that your father purchased us enough food stuffs to last the entire household a year or more, I don't think that we should act extravagantly with our extra supplies. I've never been in a situation like this before," Marissa shared, clarifying only when the fourteen year old looked at her in question. "I've never lived during wartime, but, from what I've learned in history books, anything is possible, and the worst often happens. If things don't go well for us, we could be fighting for much longer than a few months, and 

we might end up being called upon to aid the army in some way – either through donations of goods or by housing injured soldiers. I would just feel more reassured if we kept our extra provisions exactly that at this point – extra. Store them away, forget about them, but keep them in the back of our minds for a rainy day or…"

"A set of extenuating circumstances we are, by no means, prepared to even contemplate at this point," her employer's only child finished for her. "I couldn't agree more."

"And, as for everything else," Marissa promised, reaching out for the younger woman's hand to grasp in her own as they picked up their pace and started skipping, just like carefree children, through the tall grasses and young, sapling trees. "We'll simply have to figure that out as we go. Now," she commanded light-heartedly. "Tell me about this little story of yours."

"Well," Dolley started, the pretty rose tint prevalent to her creamy cheeks announcing her embracement. "Did I ever tell you about Jacob? He used to work for us in our dairy. He had the most handsome green eyes I have ever seen in my life, and..."

As her teenage friend went on, detailing to Marissa the particulars of her very first crush, she knew they were going to be alright as long as they had each other.

**.:.**

They were back in Boston, but it felt as if he had stepped foot in an alien city. Just weeks prior, the local Militia and the British Regulars had fought a steeply contested battle just outside of the city, and, though the Patriots were forced to retreat, the Redcoats had suffered a heavy enough loss not to press their victory. The siege had been broken, though, and, now, here they were as members of General George Washington's staff, preparing to form the Continental Army.

War did not make for an easy existence. It was more work, dirtier, and, sometimes, less rewarding than his former position for the Coopers back in England, but, still, Ryan would not have changed his lot in life. Whether or not he was comfortable, he was certainly learning new things every day, and, more importantly, he was a functioning, oftentimes, even important, member of a cause he easily and readily believed in. Rather than toiling away day after day to simply survive, he was now endeavoring to ensure that the ideals and beliefs of the American Colonies could survive the tyranny of King George. It was an exhilarating new reality for him, but, still, he couldn't help but wonder…

How were things back home at Juniper Hall? Were Marissa and Miss Johnson alright? Did they have any connection to the outside world at that point, or were they, like many of the people the moving army had encountered on their way from Philadelphia to Boston, totally oblivious to what was going on around them. He knew that many countryside estates were too sheltered to get word from the battlefield, and he hoped that his letters had the ability to reach their hands. If he was lonely surrounded by thousands of men as they drilled, marched, and trained for imminent battle, then the girls had to be feeling even more alone with only just themselves and the company of a few, older servants.  


"You look completely lost there, son."

Pivoting around in his foldable camp seat to face and address his employer, the sandy haired young man shrugged, admitting to the accusation set against him by the older man. "Guilty, Sir, I'm afraid."

"Aw, no harm, no foul, Young Atwood. While you still have the opportunity to, you should allow your mind to wander now and again. However, if you don't mind my asking, what had you so distracted?"

"Home," Ryan answered plainly, tilting his chin up to fully meet the commander's gaze. "I was wondering of how your daughter and my wife are getting along. It's been nearly two months since we left them, Mr. Johnson."

Taking a seat beside him, the graying man sighed, crossed his short yet still strong legs out in front of him, and nodded his head in agreement. "That it has, and I miss my Dolley, just as I imagine you're missing Mrs. Atwood as well."

"I'm sure they're fine without us."

"That's not what I said," Gideon objected, eyeing him carefully. "There's an immeasurable difference between longing for someone's company and hoping for the best." He paused momentarily before continuing. "Have you received any return letters yet from your wife?"

"No, Sir."

"Well," he tried to reassure his personal secretary, standing up once again and offering Ryan a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll write you as soon as she gets the chance, and, maybe, if we're lucky, the notes will actually get delivered. Start packing up, though, son," the elderly gentleman directed patiently. "We'll be moving out again in the morning."

And going further away from home in the process.


	12. Chapter 12

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Twelve  
OCFF#30: "Happiness is finding two olives in your martini when you're very hungry." – Johnny Carson**

Really, sometimes, she had to worry about their collective intelligence. Lazing away the late summer evening in the far back grove of Juniper Hall's apple orchard, Marissa carelessly ran her hand through the tall grass surrounding her, savoring the soft, gentle caresses of the fine reeds and blades. It was like that every night for her and Dolley. After working themselves into a sweaty, exhausted state during the day, they retired to the outdoors following dinner, rewarding their bodies and their minds with hours of something doing nothing.

It was the perfect respite after mornings and afternoons filled with cooking, cleaning, weeding the flowerbeds and vegetables gardens, taking care of the animals, canning food for the winter months, and, somehow, in the middle of everything else they had to do, managing to spare a few hours of time and energy to work on their collective effort for the cause. By the time they finished rolling bandages every day or stopped their sewing and darning, the nineteen year old's hands would be dumb and sometimes bleeding, the work honed blisters she now sported on both her fingers and palms continually breaking open with the abuse. But that wasn't why she questioned their sanity.

What puzzled her was the fact that, despite the drenching, strenuous summer heat, they still continued to labor away during the hottest hours of the day. It would have made much more sense to sleep when the sun was up and then get up at night to take care of the extensive property the two of them were left to toil away taking care of, despite the fact that there never seemed to be enough time to finish all their designated tasks. There was always more dusting to do, more food to put up for the rapidly approaching winter months, and there was always something more, something else they could do to help the men out fighting to secure their freedom and liberty – something else they could do to help Ryan and Gideon.

And they had enough candles to work in the dark with the aid of the artificial light, and, if they chose to take care of their outdoor chores after the sun went down, the moon's silver illumination would have been sufficient in guiding their actions. After all, they were in the middle of an almost intolerable drought, the skies constantly clear of clouds of obstructions. However, the lack of rain also meant more work for the two young women, for they had to carry bucket after bucket after bucket of water from the various ponds and streams around the property to douse their thirsty, dry plants, doing everything within their power to prevent them from succumbing to the sun's unrelenting rays.

However, if they worked at night, they would miss the reinvigorating relaxation process they shared every evening, and Marissa knew that was why they kept toiling away under the summer haze. After a light dinner, they would retire to a cool corner of the manor's grounds – the gazebo in the garden where there was a swing big enough for two to enjoy at once, the natural spring in the center of the cow pasture that bubbled up with fresh, cool water no matter how dry the rest of the land surrounding it became, or, as they were that particular evening, in the apple orchard.

It was their favorite hideaway, the wares the trees surrounding them offering a delicious late night snack to the two drained yet oddly satisfied girls. So, while they talked about their dreams and desires, they would munch on golden delicious apples, the tart yet sweet juices refreshing their otherwise persistently parched palates. Or, while they were reading the letters sent to them from the battlefront and penning their own returning correspondences without any reassurance that the missives would make it back to the men they were meant for, they would decadently sip the sharp nectar of a granny smith, the fruits tangy bite leaving goosebumps of awareness prickled on their pink tongues.

And as they lounged there that evening, fully immersed into the Macintosh apples and the letter Marissa was reading aloud from Ryan, the two women could briefly forget about the endless work waiting for them back at the house, work they would begin toiling to complete again the very next day, and they could overlook their loneliness, for it seemed as if Ryan and Gideon, thanks to the letter her ruse of a husband had sent her, were right there with them as the blonde read the note for her younger counterpart to hear as well. Of course, she skipped some parts – the ones that were private and meant only for her eyes to see, but the majority of the epistles were simple yet detailed accounts of the battles being fought around them, and she felt as if Dolley deserved to know the truth of the war as well.

_I am still amazed that Mr. Johnson trusts me enough to complete this mission without him. While he toils away back at camp, drilling and marching and instructing the young recruits, many of whom are even younger than I am myself, on the ways of handling a weapon, I am riding through the New England countryside, a letter of battle instructions singing right through my breast pocket and burning my already heated flesh, a constant reminder of the weight of responsibility resting upon my shoulders._

_You see, for we are in a standoff with Howe in Boston, the congress is determined to take a stand and advance this contest in some way. Leaders and their men are waiting for the word I carry to inform them of their impending orders. Very few individuals know of these commands that I am about to share with you, for secrecy and surprise will be key to what will hopefully be the colonies' first incisive victory._

_After offering the French Canadians a chance to join our fight as the fourteenth colony and being turned down, the leaders of our fledgling cause have decided to invade our neighbors to the north in the hopes of capturing the British controlled cities there. The note that I am carrying to Brigadier General Richard Montgomery at Fort Ticonderoga will detail to him exactly how he is to go about these actions, and I am humbled the significance of my duties._  
  
Pausing for a moment to scan ahead in the note, Marissa's thoughts were interrupted by Dolley sitting up beside her on her elbows and asking, "why did you stop?"

Normally, her charge never noticed when she skipped portions of Ryan's letters, so, for a minute, she was thrown as to how she should respond. "Well, I… it was just… You see…"

The brunette giggled, stopping her senseless rambling. "Oh, I understand."

With brow creased, she asked nervously, "You do?"

"I might not be experienced with courting, for Papa has always contended that I was too young to entertain gentleman callers, and, while I might not be married, I do understand that there are some things that must remain private between a husband and a wife." Pressing forth, the fourteen year old continued dreamily, sighing wistfully. "I think it's romantic, you know, that Mr. Atwood writes to you such personal things. I imagine that he tells you he misses you, and that he dreams of the day the two of you will be reunited, never to be separated again."

She was at a loss for words. While, on one hand, she did not want to lie to her friend, Marissa knew that she could not share with her employer's daughter the truth of her relationship with Ryan. She could not tell her that, while Ryan missed Juniper Hall and the life he had there as Gideon's secretary, he did not necessary miss her. At least, not the way that a man should miss the woman he purported to love. Not only would that bring preventable risk upon their subterfuge, but it would also dash the younger woman's silly yet important naive ideals, and she simply couldn't do that to Dolley. After all, she wanted her to someday fall in love for her, to marry for all the right reasons that she herself, due to circumstance, was denied. So, unfortunately, she was forced to pick the lesser of two evils.

Never meeting the brunette's gaze, she whispered, "something like that," fighting back the melancholy stirrings the sentiment inspired within her as simply the result of eating too many apples. Because it would do her no good to mourn the loss of her own chances to fall in love someday, Marissa wouldn't allow herself to think of the various things her relationship with the man the rest of the world believed to be her husband, and she most certainly would not wonder what those things would be like with the man she had run away from home with. Those thoughts were simply too dangerous for both her mind and her heart, not to mention completely sentimental and unrealistic.

Breaking the short silence that had fallen between them, the young girl beside her asked, "what was the first thing that drew you to Mr. Atwood, Marissa?"

Now, that she could answer truthfully, for Dolley did not need to know that she turned to the blonde man in an effort to escape her childhood home and the constraints her family placed upon her, and her answer, through actually meant for a different answer, would work in response to the fourteen year old's inquiry. "His obstinacy."

The petite brunette giggled. "That's a rather odd answer. What do you think he first noticed about you?"

Again, she was sincere with her reply. "Well, you see, Ryan worked for my family, so he had to be nice to me; he had to see to my every whim and need. You know, at first, I treated him horribly. I was demanding and rude, impertinent, and I acted as if I was better than he was."

"I imagine you were raised to believe that," Dolley interjected, seemingly unwilling to listen to her friend berate her own behavior. "And, obviously, the two of you moved past that stage of your relationship. I mean, after all, you are here, married."

"Yes, we are," Marissa agreed.

"So, then, what changed?" When she twisted her head around in the grass to peer at her charge, the other woman clarified, "how did the two of you move forward to the point where you fell in love?"

"Neither of us were happy about our lives back in London," the nineteen year old responded. "I was adamant about not wanting to marry for money, and Ryan wanted the chance to better himself but knew that he would be unable to living in a place that only knew him as an orphaned stable hand, and, eventually, because we were both desperate to change our lives and the paths they were taking, we learned to trust each other."

"And from trust came love," Dolley continued for her, giggling melodiously at the very idea.

"Come on," Marissa instructed, standing up and already starting to walk back towards the main house. Calling for her friend over her shoulder, she said, "it's getting late, and we have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

Good naturedly, the brunette complained, "we always have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

And she was right. They did. But the excuse was just the thing that Marissa needed to go inside. Despite the fact that the Juniper Hall never truly cooled down at night even with the shadows of the moon and the breezes from the rustling trees, she wanted to read the rest of Ryan's letter, and she could only do that in the privacy of her own, private chambers. She wanted to read of how Gideon's trust both made him feel proud but also dishonest because of their lies, and she wanted to hear about the northern landscapes her pretend husband was traveling through as he made his way towards the next, imminent crossroads of his life. And she wanted to be able to say out loud his closing remarks and salutations, the sound of her own lips and mouth uttering the words 'your husband' never failing to twist up and confuse the very private recesses of her inner being. There was just something so very satisfying about the idea of someone truly loving her and wanting to be with her, even if it was simply a hoax, and it was her sole, bright spot of happiness in an otherwise forlorn existence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Thirteen  
OCFF#31: Heat Lightening.**

War was not glamorous; it was not genteel or honorable, and it had not taken Ryan long to realize that his grand illusions were just that. Fantasies. Artifice. A Figment of his imagination. While battles were fought with a sense of gentlemanly respect, rules of conduct and drill followed precisely, advance and retreat, advance and retreat, behind the scenes, war was nothing but strife and a constant struggle – both for survival and between right and wrong.

Often the decisions he was forced to make on a daily basis couldn't be fit into one category or another. Wrong and right were too black and white for times of war. But, rather, he had to use the mindset of bad and worse, comparing and contrasting two evils, weighing them closely to determine which was the lesser risk to his own self-respect and conscience. Even that, though, had become tedious, difficult to distinguish, so, now, Ryan found himself considering just one thought when he had to make a decision:

What would be best for Marissa.

A part of his devotion to her safety and future was born from guilt. Gideon had warned him prior to the outbreak of the war that his absence would be harder upon the woman he was purporting to be married to than it would be on him, but his employer's counsel had gone unheeded. The former stable hand had joined the cause without delay or contemplation, wanting to prove himself, but, really, what he should have been worried about was protecting the woman he had, whether by choice or not, become, in a way, partially responsible for, just as she was partially responsible for him, too. But it was more than just shame that pushed him to put Marissa first.

She was also the only person in the world who truly knew him. Yes, he respected Mr. Johnson, looked up to him as only a young man who had lived his entire life fatherless could, but it was impossible for Ryan to be completely honest with him. The same went for the various men of the army that he had formed connections with as well. Everyone in the camps knew him as Mr. Atwood, a trusted, if not lowly, member of the General's staff, but they didn't know that he had run away from his former position and home, they didn't know that he was pretending to be married to a woman who, in all likelihood, would have become a member of the British royalty had she not escaped her parents' control and influence, and, because they didn't know these things, he couldn't really know him.

But Marissa did, and he knew her, too, and it was because of the openness between them that he had started to look towards her as a friend. Whether he liked to admit it or not, and he certainly would never tell her how he felt, the valet respected the nineteen year old beauty. She was brave and idealistic, loyal and tenacious, and they both had the other to thank for their lives. In turn, they had managed to somehow, someway save the other – whether physically as he had done on _The Newport _for her or intellectually as she had for him by getting him away from Cooper Manor.

All of these things combined made it so that he worried more about her wellbeing, her happiness, than his own, despite the fact that, sometimes hundreds of miles away from her, he could do absolutely nothing for her. In fact, if he wanted to be morbid, he wasn't even sure if she was even still alive. The last letter he had received from her had come in through 

the mail a month prior, and it had been dated from July. With December rapidly coming to a close and the new year quickly approaching, an almost six month time span stretched between his last correspondence with the woman his fate was so inexplicably tied to, and it wasn't for a lack of effort on either of their parts either like had first feared, for, in her letter, Marissa had detailed how she and Dolley wrote to him and Gideon at least once a week, whether they received new word from them or not. Although the knowledge that she cared enough to write routinely helped bolster his spirits, the fact that the notes she sent out dutifully never reached him gave Ryan pause.

Exhausted from fruitless days on end in the saddle, the weary aide focused on the bright, flickering fires of the Continental Army's Camp about a mile ahead. Soon, he would be in his tent, free to lie down and brood in privacy. Unlike Gideon, he had no responsibilities other than to himself when they returned to the troop's winter headquarters just outside of Boston, so, while his employer went off to inform their Commanding General of yet another failed raid for gunpowder, he would be free to do as he pleased in privacy. He would write, sending out another letter he had no guarantee of actually reaching the home he had left behind months prior, and then he would sleep in preparation for their next excursion.

And there would be another one. That much he knew with certainty. Desperately low on gunpowder, while the fighting tapered off to a ceasefire during the cold, harsh winter months of New England, the Army had two goals: one, to prepare for upcoming battle in the spring, and, two, to find proper supplies. Food and bandages, if not plentiful, were at least available, but, when it came to ammunition, they were decidedly low compared to the Redcoats' seemingly endless supply. So, despite attempting and succeeding rather poorly to manufacture their own gun powder, the order had been given out that a small, select band of troops would raid British supplies, and, ever the man who believed he was up for any challenge, his boss had volunteered for the assignment, picking and choosing the men who would ride with him. Of course, Ryan was included in that group, seeing as how he was Gideon's own personal secretary, but he cringed with the knowledge that, other than being a spy, he was performing one of the most dangerous duties the military had to offer.

It shamed him to realize that, if given the choice, he would shy away from such a life threatening mission, and, sadly, it had nothing to do with nobility or strength of character. Just like with all his other decisions, he knew that the British arsenals needed to be raided. While it wasn't the most honorable way of procuring the goods that they required, it was essentially do or die, and, in order to win the war and go home to the life he had left behind and Marissa, the onetime coachman knew that the Continental Army needed that gunpowder. Instead, it was the fact that he was taking undo risk upon himself that made the blonde uncomfortable with his current missions, not because of his own life but because of what the loss of his life might mean for Marissa.

Reaching their makeshift stables, he dismounted swiftly. Always steady and competent on a horse, the months of solid riding he had undertaken since leaving Juniper Hall three seasons before with Gideon had made the task seemingly effortless for the nineteen year old. Tossing the reigns to one of the men presently assigned to take care of the troop's animals, he walked away without a glance behind him, his booted feet numb from the cold but determined in their steps. He moved robotically through the camp, weaving and bobbing his way through the aisles upon aisles of tents and campfires, the noises of the men blending far into the background to the point where they were just static to him. The simple truth was that, in that moment, nothing else mattered except for the few hours of rest he would be able to grab without interruption or censure. Mr. Johnson would be meeting with General Washington for the remainder of the evening, providing him with an opportunity to enjoy some guiltless freedom from all things military related.  


Pushing open the ten flap, he secured it behind him without thought, moving directly towards his cot. Compared to the bed he still, even months later, dreamed about back at home, the cot was practically just a flat wooden board with a straw tick thrown on top of it. His blankets were thin, scratchy, but, after being in the saddle for a solid week, it fairly resembled heaven on earth to the young valet. But it wasn't the sleep it represented that comforted him, but, rather, it was the letter perched crookedly on his lumpy, gray pillow that brought him a modicum of joy.

He didn't remove his coat, he didn't start a fire, and he didn't even sit down before he was tearing into the note almost desperately, and, really, when he thought about his own actions, they caught him off guard. Although he knew that he cared for Marissa, that she was his friend, his confident, it wasn't until that very moment when he realized just how important she had become to him, but, refusing to focus on his own confusing thoughts, he scrambled ahead to read the missive, determined to push aside all distractions so that his attention was solely placed upon the letter. With just the dim illumination of a lantern, he scanned and then studied the small piece of communication, breathing out both a sigh of gratitude and frustration that the note was dated from October.

Good Evening, Mr. Atwood.

Obviously, I have no idea when… or even if… you'll ever achieve the opportunity to read this missive, but I decided to address my letter to you this way, seeing as how it is night here at Juniper Hall. It is the only time of the day, in fact, that I get a moment to myself. The mornings and afternoons are filled with chores and household duties, and, during the early hours of the evenings, I spend time with Dolley, her company my life preserver in this otherwise drowning pool of loneliness I exist within.

I don't mean to complain, though, for I'd much rather be here, at home, relatively safe and secure, than out fighting as you are. Before anything else, just let me say that I hope you are comfortably tucked into your tent right now, free of danger and strife, as you read this note, but, if not, may you travel in peace. Selfishly, I pray for no harm or foul to befall you, but, in your best interests, you deserve the chance to come out of this war unscathed and healthy; you deserve a chance to finally live the life you dream of.

However, I do not wish to speak of this contest between The Colonies and The British. Day in and day out, that is all the women here discuss, appropriately, might I add. Our own lives revolve around the war – Dolley's and mine, and, when the ladies meet with us here at Juniper Hall to plan out our latest fundraising endeavor, our attentions, obviously, are focused upon the men off fighting and what little good we might be able to bring to them. But I imagine that, just like me, you wish to know of, to hear of, to talk of things that do not reflect your current, rather untenable situation, so allow me to distract you with thoughts of home.

As you're aware of thanks to my earlier letters, that is, if you have received them, it is just Dolley and I now at Juniper Hall, and, despite our best and tireless efforts, the place is not as beautiful, not as magnificent as it once was. There is too much work to be done and not enough time in the day or energy in our weary bodies to perform it all. We do what we can, but we do not allow what we can't accomplish to trouble us. The 

animals are all well, and we are, though slightly tanned from the sun and rough from the efforts of our daily chores, fit, and, really, that is all that matters, is it not?

I must admit, though, that, no matter how long I am here in America, I cannot get used to the weather. The summer heat and humidity, as you are well aware of yourself, are practically unknown of in London, and, as I sit here, writing this, the heavy oppression of a sickly sweet October night pervading the dense air about me, I mull over the fact that Dolley has informed me that we are currently experiencing what is known as an Indian Summer. It's all rather surreal. Who would have imagined a heat lightening storm a week before All Hallow's Eve? I know, a year ago, I certainly would not have been able to.

Speaking of the storm, we had quite the scare from it. One of the farm buildings was struck, caught on fire, and, despite our best efforts, there was absolutely no way for Dolley or myself to fight the flames. But we watched it simmer and then, eventually, diminish, stayed up all night, in fact, and then worked the entire next day without break to clean up from the mess. If nothing else, though, the event reminded me of something we are unprepared for – the winter months and the numerous fire places in Juniper Hall that we will have to fill with firewood in order to stay warm. With that in mind, we have set aside all of this week and the next to chop wood – a rather curious sight to behold considering who it is that is attempting to cut the heavy logs. Be fair warned, Sir. By the time you come home, you might have just become superfluous.

And now it is time for me to retire for the evening. Sleep well, Mr. Atwood.

Sincerely,  
Marissa

P.S. I hope you know that my previous comments about your redundancy here were highly exaggerated and meant in jest.

He closed the letter, folded it carefully in order to store it among his few other personal effects, and, then, finally, relaxed out along the cot. Even in the face of such hardship, of such impossible odds, the woman he was, for better or worse, connected with fought on without complaint, attempting to see the bright side to any situation. It was just one more reason for Ryan to admire her, one more reason for him to constantly have her in mind when facing life's most important decisions, and one more reason why he was determined to survive the war and go home to Juniper Hall, and the fact that it was one, formerly petulant and spoiled Marissa Cooper who gave him all that… Well, the realization left him thunderstruck.


	14. Chapter 14

**Class Distinctions**

**Chapter Fourteen  
OCFF#32: There is no such thing as monsters under the bed. They're not that obvious.**

Months.

He had spent months just outside of Boston – drilling, marching, training – and, yet, there had been no opportunity to return to Juniper Hall even if just on a short furlough. The ride to and from the countryside estate would have taken less than a day, but the holidays had passed without leave, and he was still battling the unpredictable and unreliable colonial postal service, waiting not so patiently for word from home.

Gideon seemed unfazed, though, oddly enough, so Ryan wallowed alone, worrying and brooding over the one woman and the one young girl the two of them had left behind so many months ago. What had been intended to be a short trip to Philadelphia to attend a conference had turned into almost a year's time in the army, and the worst thing was that little had been accomplished. To say that the war between King George and the thirteen colonies was unproductive would be a grievous underestimation of futility.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in the cause anymore, but he was sick and tired of simply standing still, waiting for something to happen instead of going out and making it. A fight, especially one of such magnitude, in the former coachman's estimation, should not have been so passive, but that's exactly what it was. Days bled into weeks, and, without notice, weeks turned into months, but, still, the army sat unmoving, preparing for something that, at that point, he had little faith of actually occurring. Ryan knew that he would have been of more service out of the military and at home, but he had forfeited that option when he agreed to stand by his employer's side, and he only hoped that their next move was one to incite reaction by the British.

The short, dreary days of winter had turned into the longer yet still equally dreary days of spring. Instead of snow, he trudged through rain, and, instead of waking up in the morning so cold it felt as if his joints were actually frozen solid, his joints now ached with the moisture that was constantly present. It was a different sort of wetness, though, than what he was used to in London. It was more chilling, and fog was a rarity. The waters of the sea didn't calm the raging weather and keep it under control; rather, it encouraged Mother Nature's fastidious attitude, rolling and churning and slamming into the coves of shoreline along the Massachusetts coast in an unforgiving manner, and he doubted that the harbor in New York would be any different than Boston's.

However, the chance to move and actually _do something _was too tempting to completely deteriorate the valet's mood. Although they would be further away from his adopted home, he was pleased that General Washington felt it pertinent to take a stand. After the canons were placed in Dorchester Heights by Major Knox, the British had fled the strategic city, sailing, it was commonly assumed, to their naval base in Nova Scotia. That left the roads 

out of town open, free for passage, without the threat of enemy fire, and the Continental Army's commander was taking advantage of the situation by moving his troops south to New York City in an effort to fortify the important trading post. They were moving out the very next day, despite the abysmal weather, and, with the start of the march, Ryan would be leaving behind any chance he had of returning quickly to Juniper Hall.

Despite the fact that he had just received a letter from the woman he was pretending to be married to a few short weeks before, the missive was still months old and provided him with little pertinent information. He knew that Marissa was keeping things from him, saving him from the direst news she could report and, instead, offering in her notes a rather cheerful spin on her existence in order to lighten the load she knew he carried so heavily upon his strong, capable shoulders. But he didn't want her to do that; he didn't want her to take on more of the burden upon herself. He would have been more at ease knowing the truth, however harsh and alarming it was, because, at least, that way, he was fully prepared for whatever may be waiting for him at home whenever he did get to return.

Not that he felt he would be leaving the army anytime soon…

The resolution between Great Britain and the Thirteen Colonies was nowhere in sight, and, with both sides playing it cautious, making the contest a veritable waiting game, he wasn't foolish enough to believe the year 1776 would end in peace. No, he was more practical than that, so he realized that the road ahead would be long and winding, dangerous, and filled with more stops and starts than he wished to contemplate. Blowing out the candle beside his cot, he laid back and closed his eyes, hoping that the woman so often on his mind was feeling far less pessimistic that evening than he was.

**.:.**

She couldn't sleep. Wrapping the warmest coat she owned even tighter around her slender frame, Marissa shivered, willing her body to generate its own heat. After all, there certainly was a shortage of it inside of the great house, and, outside, she was well aware of the fact that she wouldn't find a reprieve from the cold. No matter what she and Dolley had attempted to do, it was impossible for them to master the task of splitting wood. They simply weren't physically attuned to such manual labor, and the insignificant amount of kindling that they managed to cut everyday had to be used to cook with, leaving them perpetually cold and always one particularly hostile chill away from sickness. It was no way to live, and she hated her inabilities to survive without the aid of a man.

To stay alive, the two of them now shared a single bed. If she was being completely honest with herself, the pretty blonde would have to admit that she preferred staying in Dolley's room with her young friend. It helped curb her lonesomeness, and it kept her mind off of a taboo topic she had forbidden it from considering. But in the dead of night, unable to truly stop herself from worrying despite the fact that she was physically exhausted, mentally weary, and emotionally drained, the memories that taunted her returned, and she couldn't help but recall what it had been like at Juniper Hall before the war had started.

She would remember the comfort and the warmth.  


The wealth, the ease of living, the prosperity.

But, most importantly, she would recall the companionship – not that from the other servants or even from Gideon, her employer, but Ryan's. She missed him more than she liked to admit, and that realization was never more apparent than when she was alone, at night, in the room she had once shared with him.

However, winter had changed everything. With the ushering in of bad weather and her and Dolley's failed attempts at splitting wood, they had decided to share a bed, hoping the close proximity of another human form would help warm them even during the chilliest of nights. They were still alive, so, evidently, the altered sleeping arrangements had done, at least, a modicum of good, but Marissa knew that spring would be arriving soon, and, with it, relief from the bitter New England winter would mean a return to her own sleeping chambers.

Not that she could ever truly rest. Oh, she somehow managed to doze off for a couple of hours every night, her body finding a way to recuperate enough in order to function the next day, but there were too many things weighing down upon her mind in order for her to truly relax. There was her concern for the man she was purporting to be married to, her curiosity about the war, seeing as how Ryan's letter diminished in count more and more as the months went along, not from a lack of writing, she assumed, but from the general state of disorganization the colonies permanently operated under, and, also, the unknown of the future waiting for her to tackle its mysteries.

With spring would come planting, something she knew absolutely nothing of, and it didn't matter that she had spent all her free time during the last few months going over every book on agriculture in the Johnson family library. Without real, hands on experience, she had little hope of actually sowing a successful crop. With spring would come new animals, the cows and horses and goats and sheep all preparing to welcome into the world their latest calves and foals and kids and lambs. If she managed to somehow retain half of the livestock currently residing at Juniper Hall, it would be quite an accomplishment. And, with spring, would come the year anniversary of living at the estate alone with just a now fifteen year old girl who was even more inexperienced when it came to the world and life in general than she was.

And that was saying something.

Sighing, Marissa stepped carefully, her midnight walk guided by the moon's ever present light through the gardens and out towards the barns and stables. On top of everything else, she had a sixth sense that something was wrong, and she feared that, between the evening feeding and the point where she had sat up in bed wide awake just ten minutes before, something had gone wrong with one of the animals. Either they were sick or in labor, and, with all the local men off fighting in the war, it was her responsibility to offer whatever care she could… even if it wasn't much.

They kept a lantern in the each of the out buildings, so the first thing she did when she 

stepped into the barn containing all the milking cows, Jerseys according to the books she had read, was strike a match to light the illumination source, casting the high beamed shelter into dancing gloom. The animals, though, were all safe and content – some sleeping… as she should have been, and some simply chewing their cud, idly, disinterestedly, routinely. She was just about to extinguish the lantern in order to head to the stables next door when she noticed movement in the hayloft, causing her to pause in panic.

The first time she had seen a mouse, she had been startled, and the first time she had seen a rat, she had been disgusted, but the movement above her was not due to any marauding wildlife. The animals that could climb or fly their way up into the loft were all too small to cause such a ruckus, so that left her with only one option. It wasn't a something hiding in the barn but, rather a someone, and, unthinkingly, she had gone out to inspect everything unarmed. Despite the fact that she didn't really know how to shoot a weapon, she still sometimes carried around one of Gideon's guns, hoping the threat of injury would scare off anything dangerous that she or Dolley might stumble upon accidentally. But this stumbling was not accidental; it had simply been foolish.

However, she was too stubborn to allow anyone to take advantage of the estate's quickly diminishing resources, and she was too incensed that someone had attempted to do so to think rationally, so she didn't return to the house like any sane woman would. Instead, she looked for the closest threatening thing within her grasp, tightening her work roughened hands around the time bleached handle of the pitchfork, jabbing it menacingly towards the loft.

"Show yourself," she demanded, yelling in order to mask her fear. When there was no response, she took a step closer and raised her voice. "I said, you coward, show yourself!"

The next few moments seemed to pass by in a blur. With the light of the lantern to prevent the uppermost corners of the barn from existing completely in the dark, she noticed a figure bleed out from the shadows, slowly approaching the main circle of light she herself was standing in, but the man's approach was awkward and unsteady, and any former sense of distress she had been feeling for her own safety was transferred onto the stranger.

The clattering sound of the pitchfork falling to the ground masked some of her anguish as the blonde twenty year old sprang into action, gasping aloud in sympathy. "Oh my… you're hurt!" Quickly climbing the ladder that led to the loft as quickly as the billowing skirts of her nightdress, robe, and coat would allow, she moved to the trespasser's side, wrapping her arms around him and easing him back down to a sitting position as carefully as she could. It didn't matter that he was filthy and getting blood all over her own pristinely clean bedclothes, and it didn't matter that he was a stranger. The boy or, rather, the young man was injured, and, like any decent person in her situation, all Marissa was concerned with was helping him.

"What happened to you?"

"Shot," the intruder answered in a rasping, weak voice. "Running away… caught me… made it home, but… no one…"

"Please, don't talk," she insisted, helping him further by coaxing him to lie back down. "It doesn't matter right now. You can tell me what happened after we get you feeling better, but, first, I need to clean your wound. Alright?" Standing up, she moved towards the ladder. "I'll be right back, but I need to go and get some supplies, a few blankets, and I think I better bring you some food, too. You feel extremely thin."

"Thank you, Miss."

Not aware of the title he had given her and the connotation behind it, the beautiful blonde smiled reassuringly. "It's Marissa, Marissa Atwood."

"Will," the young man returned, grimacing at the effort it took to reply. "Just Will."


End file.
